Little Stars
by Kourion
Summary: It's a three week countdown to find a serial killer and his most recent victim: a psychologically damaged little girl with a remarkable likeness to Charlotte Jane. So of course, Lisbon's stressed and Jane's obsessed. Noncon/ Jisbon overtones/Hurt-comfort
1. Chapter 1

**Title - Little Stars - 1/2  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Feverish!Jane Protective!Lisbon

* * *

_When he shall die_  
_Take him and cut him out in little stars_  
_And he will make the face of heav'n so fine_  
_That all the world will be in love with night_  
_And pay no worship to the garish sun._

~William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

_

* * *

**LISBON'S POV**  
_

* * *

I know the moment that Jane trundles into the bullpen on Monday morning that he's...off.

Unwell, really.

At first it's nothing all too obvious. He's not sniffling, or coughing. His eyes aren't weeping... he doesn't look that bad.

But he almost limps into the office, heads straight for the couch, and as I approach - _at first ready to bug him for not getting proper rest_ - I see a sheen of sweat covering the top of his lip, and notice that the blond curls near his temples are cloaked in sweat. Coming up even closer, I can see a faint flush across the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes, although the rest of his skin is strikingly pale.

"Jane?," I ask cautiously, at first not knowing if he's sweating because he's in pain or if he's merely feverish.

He's clenching his stomach, however, which throws me.

"Jane?," I ask again, this time a little bit more loudly - and am rewarded when his eyes open slightly, a muted, soft blue meeting my line of sight.

He makes no attempt to respond verbally, his hands now coming to wrap around his abdomen. I push down some sort of protective, mothering instinct - disturbed with the sudden bolt of fondness for the sick man before me.

_This is Jane. Jain who pains you deliberately. Who baits everyone at the CBI..._

Somehow, I find myself not really caring about his past offenses. Not as I catch his body shake - very lightly, very softly. The hapless creature.

He reaches over languidly, to pull the afghan throw (that I had placed there the week before, knowing just how much he relied on the couch to actually sleep) over his body.

"You shouldn't be here, Jane. You're obviously sick."

He shakes his head wearily, in argument.

"No, I'm fine. I just need to wait for the Tylenol to kick in. Just 15 minutes."

His voice holds an edge of pleading, and I know he must feel like crap.

"No, Jane. Get up. I'm driving you home. You're no good to anyone sick, and I will kill you myself if you argue with me on this and get sicker."

Another wrack of chills assaults his body.

"Lisbon - I'll be fine, I-"

I reach out and push the slightly damp bangs away from his forehead, placing my hand on his skin.

"You're burning up, Jane! How long have you had a fever?"

He just stares at me - giving me this pathetically (_adorable_) aggravating lost little boy look. I find myself running the back of my hand over his hair, moving some of the wet locks away from his eyes, stopping when a more violent chill grips him.

"That feels nice - nice when you do that," he mumbles into his jacket, burrowing his face under the green throw, "but you're cold."

"I'm not cold, Jane. You have a fever."

"Cold, still, feels cold. You do that later? Yeah, later," he breathes out into the couch. And it's then that I realize he's feverish to the point of delirium. Obviously so - if he thinks I'm going to stroke his head for any other reason than gaging his temperature.

Biting my lip, I make a very quick decision.

"Stay here. Don't move. I'll be right back."

His temperature is way too high - and frankly, the glassy gaze he gave me just a few moments back is concerning me. Jane could have been sick all weekend long and probably wouldn't have thought twice to take his temperature, never mind to _monitor_ his temperature and when I catch his eyes starting to close, I jet to my locker, looking for some sort of antipyretic. I find a bottle of aspirin, and then get some ice from the fridge, but I can't for the life of me find a thermometer.

A few moments later, I'm back at the couch.

Pulling the blanket away from Jane's face, I can immediately sense how damp it has become with sweat.

I hand him a glass of tepid water and the aspirin.

"Take this," I say impatiently, nudging the pill into his mouth.

He looks at me groggily.

"Lis-, no, took ibuprofin a'redy...," he mutters, his voice dropping off into a whisper.

_Yeah, Jane. 15 minutes and you'll be good as new. Right as rain. Surrre._

"I thought you said you took tylenoyl. That would be acetominophin. Do you even know what you took? Or are you taking random pills now?"

He makes a waving motion with his hand. "Wha'mever, something. Stomach hurts, bit, little bit."

_Good God, he's not even speaking in complete or intelligible sentences anymore. Jane! Jane who isn't quiet for a 5 minute period in an entire day!_

I catch Rigsby enter the office out of the corner of my eye - his satchel slung low and loosely over his shoulder. He gives me a questioning smirk.

"You're early," I say - sounding more sour than intended.

The agent gives me a _'well, just shoot me!' _expression, then jerks his thumb towards Jane in confusion.

"Jane's sick," I inform him flatly - trying not to bark because Rigsby seems to find the whole scene before him amusing.

"Can you do me a favor and locate a thermometer?"

His eyes dart around the room at the suggestion - as if a thermometer will materialize out of thin air.

"Where am I going to find a thermometer? I mean, if you don't have one - I don't have one."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and make a snap decision, sighing in regret.

"You can help me to my car with him, right? I'm going to take him home."

Rigsby nods, now looking a little less amused. He's come close enough to Jane to see just how limp and sweaty our consultant has become. Shaking Jane slightly, just to rouse him, we both hear a hiss, as Jane's arm snakes back under the blanket.

"Stop that. Hurts."

I groan.

"I think he has a flu. Not stomach flu. Actual flu," and a little more loudly I inquire, "Jane, does it hurt when someone touches your skin?"

He nods, and we both hear a muffled _yeah_. "An' my eyes hurt. Inside my head." He taps at his closed eyes with one hand softly, while I bite back something along the lines of_ 'well, of course inside your head!'_ - but stop myself before proceeding when he wearily intones, "Don' feel very well, no."

Something soft swells up in my heart.

I push it away.

* * *

Rigsby helps Jane to my car. This prompts Jane to mutter that he needs to collect_ his_ car.

I shudder to think that he actually drove that thing to work in his state.

"What the hell were you thinking, Jane? Driving to work? You can barely keep your eyes open!," I say more softly than I feel.

I'm not really...angry at him. A little alarmed that he wouldn't have the self-preservation of a gnat. But not angry, per se.

"Need my car," he argues, but there's no fight in his words, no insistence.

"Don't worry about your car. I'll clear it with Mike - he'll let you keep it here overnight, okay? Or else I'll have Cho or Van Pelt drive it to your place later, alright?"

At this, I see him pat his jacket, shakily retrieve the keys to his Citron, and hand them over to the taller man whose currently helping Jane buckle up.

I mouth a_ thank you _to Risby, who nods, smiles, and turns back to Jane.

"You better rest up, man. And don't argue with boss. Got it?"

Somehow...even Rigsby has taken pity on a bedraggled Jane, whose barely half awake now, nodding in exhaustion against the shoulder harness which is currently cutting into his throat.

Rigsby smirks, bites his lip.

"Good luck boss. I don't envy you."

I stiffle a groan, and make a mental note to call Hightower once I stop in at the pharmacy.

* * *

I pull my car up into the CVS parking lot, and reach across to crack open the window on Jane's side, noting that he's finally fallen asleep.

Bending down, I turn the adjustor wheel until the seat reclines by more than a 45 degree angle. Little bit more comfortable at least.

He doesn't wake up, merely rolls to his right side, against the door and - yes - tucks a curled fist under his chin, firmly solidifying my belief that his latent emotional age is somewhere in the neighbourhood of 4 years, not 40.

Making sure all doors are locked, I semi-jog on over to the automated doors, and wait impatiently as they swoosh open, before retrieving my cellphone and calling Hightower.

* * *

Apparently, Patrick-Jane-the-consultant is worth more to the team than Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon.

Not that this comes as any surprise to me...

But I try not to feel hurt or devalued as Hightower rambles on about me "making sure" he gets better, some distant threat lacing her words, I'm sure.

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

And how typical is this, really? Just like Jane to run himself into the ground and leave me to put the pieces back together again.

_Wait, mixed references there..._

I say my goodbyes to my superior, hopefully concealing my relief at being able to hang up, and take in the mega-pharmacy. I haven't been here for awhile - normally opting for whatever remedies I can raid from my local 7-11 on my way to work. But Jane is obviously very sick, and I really don't think I have a thermometer at home, either. Maybe years back. Probably stuck in a box that I still haven't unpacked yet.

_Oh well, you only moved two years back, Teresa. Not like boxes should be unpacked already..._

Meandering through the aisles, I deposit some grape electrolyte mix into my cart. It's supposedly for little kids - but Jane acts like a little kid, and that's close enough. Plus, if he does have a stomach bug and vomits, this stuff will come in handy. I read over the list of age and weight charts, smirking when I see that it's for kids 1 to 10.

_Perfect..._

Next I drop some sugar-free popsicles into the cart, a bag of ice, a beany pack...thing, and an electric thermometer that can take a body temperature through the ear. Last thing I need is Jane to stubbornly ignore my requests. This way, I can take his temp in the car - hopefully without waking him up.

But the box does picture a toddler. So I sort of wonder if this thermometer can be used on...chronological adults as well.

Feeling like I shouldn't mess around with something like this, and not feeling up to explaining the situation to a pharmacist, I put the BraunThermascan back on the shelf and pick up a digital oral thermometer that reads "fast acting."

Finally, I throw some lemon flu drink mix stuff into the cart. I'm sure it tastes awful, but the bold red letters loudly proclaim it to be for "flu."

* * *

I unwrap the thermometer from it's plastic container on the way back to the car, catching the sight of a completely still blond head, a slumped figure.

_Still sleeping..._

Stashing the rest of the items in the trunk, I turn the thermometer on, open my door, and firmly settle in before nudging Jane to rouse.

"Wakey, wakey."

He gives a pitiful little moan, still more asleep than awake, and bats me away with his hand.

"M'tired. Wanna sleep."

I try not to roll my eyes.

"Come on, _Patrick _- I need to take your temp."

He's still out of it.

"Mmm, cold Daddy."

_Daddy?_

Jane's either playing me for a fool - or else has a much higher fever than I previously thought.

I shake him a little bit more forcefully, and at long last, his eyes open up.

"Lisbon?," and he sort of half holds his head up, "we're in your car."

He looks dazed.

I snort.

"Yes, Sherlock, we are. Now open up. Come on. I want to see just how poorly you took care of yourself this weekend."

He blinks at me dumbly, before reaching out and taking the thermometer from my grasp, staring at it as if it's an alien artifact.

"Where'd you get this?"

This time I do roll my eyes.

"Just stick it under your tongue and shut up, buster."

He does so, and a minute later he flinches as a trilling beep-beep-beep-beep emits from the device.

"Hand it over. Judgment time."

He does so - hesitant to relinquish the thing, before prompting himself up on his forearms, trying to read the results from the side.

_103.4_

Damnit, Jane!

"Put your seat belt back on, Jane. I'm taking you home. And you WILL sleep or I'll take you to the hospital and they can figure out what to do with you."

He nods, probably not thinking that I'm serious in my threat - then slumps back down, while I try to quash down a slight anxiety. I mean, it could be worse - but the reading is nothing to sneeze at either. I know that for a fact, because when my youngest brother was a little kid, his temperature spiked and I had to take him to the ER. I learned then that brain damage, mild - but still, damage - starts to occur at around temperatures of 104.

Or maybe, just maybe - mild brain damage starts to occur at around 103.4 - because we're half way to my condo before Jane even notices where I'm taking him. And this is a guy who can usually determine if someone is lying based on pupil dilation, or how you parse your sentences.

Nevermind the fact that the proverbial cherry on top of this mess...is that he doesn't even squabble about not being taken to his own home.

No.

Instead he curls up into a semi-squished ball, almost instantaneously, and proceeds to go back to sleep. I even hear him mutter something about letting him know when we're "home" - almost...contentedly!

Home!

Not "your place" or "your apartment" - but "home." As if he cohabits the place with me.

Of course...he does have a fever. I'm going to have to keep that in mind for the next while.

After all, I did promise Hightower I'd bring him back in one, working-marvel piece.

* * *

**A/N **- I needed a break from the angst!fests that are _Redress_ and _Signal to Noise_.

Of course, part 2 is likely to lapse back into the angst-realm a bit more, anyway. But I couldn't help myself. And writing a sick!Jane is oddly quite fun.


	2. Chapter 2

__

**Title - Little Stars - 2/2**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Feverish!Jane Protective!Lisbon

**A/N:**I originally had planned to make this a two-parter. But then I realized that I play too often in angst!world, and it would be a little refreshing to have this story end on a more optimistic, or upbeat, note. So yeah, expect a third part! Btw, all the reviews were lovely. :) Thank you. They really make my day!

___

* * *

_

Jane manages to make it to the front of the apartment building with minimal assistance, his arms wrapped around his midsection. He's still wearing his waist coat and jacket, which I think is truly ridiculous, all things considered.

His dress shirt has come undone, and hangs limply over his pants. Sweat has made his hair curl more than is typical, and the fever is causing him to sway slightly as I punch in the entry code, holding the CVS pharmacy bag in one hand, and lightly holding onto Jane with the other.

"After you," I tell him, and he blinks again, as if disoriented. I'll definitely be checking his temperature again in a second.

We ride the elevator in relative silence, which unnerves me. Not in the sense of making me uncomfortable, or embarrassed. It simply makes me just a little more aware of how weak and out-of-sorts Jane must feel, and in that moment, I know I've done the right thing in insisting he come back to my place.

When we get to the third floor, he reaches out to grasp hold of the elevator banister, stepping gently over the partition after almost tripping.

"Careful there," I say absently, and I steady him. He gives me a woozy smile.

"I'm sorry Lisbon," he breathes out.

"Nothing to be sorry for... Everyone gets sick."

I fiddle around with the locks as I speak, and the door creaks open a second later.

_I really need to get some WD40 on those hinges._

Jane doesn't seem to notice, and tentatively enters, looking around with open eyes...almost as if he has never been here before.

"You put some boxes away," he wheezes, and I ignore a need to ask him how that really matters right now, before realizing that he seems...almost _timid._

Jane, sick, is really not the same force of character as physically-healthy-Jane. I'm starting to see that with staggering clarity now.

He crouches down then, and slowly unknots the laces of his shoes, before yanking them off and cupping them with one hand.

"Where would you like me to put these?"

For someone who helps himself with nary a thought to a suspects pekoe or earl grey tea, he's being remarkably well behaved. Almost...excessively proper.

"Oh. Anywhere. I don't really care - although there's a shoe rack somewhere in the closet, over there...," I utter from the kitchen, while I stick the cold compress in the freezer. Popsicles too. I then unwrap the plastic from the lid of the grape Pedialyte bottle, while grabbing an indigo tumbler from the shelves. I pour some of the grape mixture in, and dilute it with filtered water from the fridge.

When I return to the living room, I note that Jane's still standing stiffly by the door, still holding his shoes...

In his dazedness he must not have fully heard me. I put the glass down, and make my way over to where he's rooted.

"We can put these here, k?," and I slide open the mirrored closet doors, pushing back a couple jackets and exposing a bare spot of floor. I have actually stashed a couple boxes here, trying to cut down on the visual clutter, and push at some of the lighter boxes containing smoky smelling fall sweaters with one socked toe. I seriously have not been home enough to really make much headway. That or...(and this is probably more accurate)...I don't _care _enough about keeping it neat-pin tidy. It's clean, and I know where the essentials are...which is good enough for me.

I realize that Jane is probably very different. He most likely has a place for everything, given how...exacting he is about his tea, or how sensitive and precise he is regarding the tailoring of his suits. He can be measured, almost aesthetically perfectionistic - despite his easy way of speaking, of charmingly trying to disarm everyone around him.

In that way we're probably pretty opposite. Almost polar opposite. That's not to say that anyone would ever call me a slob, or a slouch, but I've never been high maintenance.

I don't even think I've ever had a suit tailored, never mind professionally fitted. Looking down at my jeans, I smirk, seeing just how much I've had to roll up the cuffs.

_The perils of being short._

Realizing that I'm getting lost in thought, I wave him in, and he slowly moves into the center of the room, and sits down on the couch. I help him take off his jacket, and fling it over the couch, while I reach over and drag the royal blue silk throw over his shoulders.

"My little brother gave this to me. So don't throw up on it," I quip, mock-glaring - not exactly serious in my threat. But Jane nods with great seriousness. Another trait typically lacking in his repertoire of behaviors.

"I want to take your temperature again," I say, holding out the thermometer, resetting the device, and he smiles just a little bit.

"You just did."

"Half hour ago. And you're sweating profusely. A 103 temp is nothing to dismiss. If it gets to 104, I'm taking you to the hospital."

And that does it, I know. Jane hates hospitals.

I place the metal tip under his tongue, then head back to the kitchen, grabbing the grape drink. As I mix the rapidly dissolving ice around with a yellow bendy straw, I hear Jane quickly let out a sound, an odd sound, similar to what you'd expect if he had the wind knocked out of him. Concerned, I exit with the beverage, hearing the buzzer go off.

When I make my way back over to where he is perched, I remove the device and frown.

_103.5_

_Shit._

"It's up. Just a little. 103.5. How do you feel, Jane?"

He looks like he's trying not to cry, and the change from his previous calm state to..._this_... in a manner of seconds has me feeling apprehensive.

Jane doesn't speak for a moment, so I'm about to rephrase the question, but then he wraps the blanket around his torso, looks me in the eye, mumbling something under his breath.

"Didn't catch that - sorry?"

_His hands are shaking..._

"Everything feels sort of...white and...full."

It's an odd description. I don't know what he's talking about, really.

I see him clench his hands, trying to say something...without really saying it.

"Bright and...unreal. Like a dream."

_Like a nightmare..._

His eyes meet mine, and I'm taken aback by just how glassy they have become. He looks even sicker than he did at work - paler, and more distant.

I reach out and touch his head again without thinking - stroking a bit of the soft skin near his temple before catching myself, and stopping my ministrations.

"_Unreal_...how?"

Jane looks down, and I see him smile a self-deprecating smile.

"Jane?"

He fidgets.

"Jane...come on, answer the question. If something is really wrong, I should know."

I see him hesitate, then close his eyes.

"I thought I heard her," and a mewling sound - torn and distraught erupts low in his throat before he coughs, continues.

"I thought I heard her call for me. She was crying. She was crying "daddy". It was, it was because-," and he lets out a sob, his demeanor quickly fragmenting from stable to grief-filled.

I don't know what to say, so I reach for his hand, and just hold it for a second.

"It's just the fever, Jane," and I rub his back in small circles. I hate seeing him so upset. "Just the fever messing with you. I know it hurts."

He nods, his voice thick and gruff and broken.

"Yeah, it does. _Hurts_."

"I know."

We both know he isn't talking about his stomach any longer.

After a moment, I try again.

"I should call the hospital-"

His eyes widen in some sort of misplaced fear, which I can't truly grasp, so I continue to stroke his back, feel him tremble.

"Auditory hallucinations aren't a good sign, Jane. Have you had them before?"

He squeezes his eyes tight, nods.

"Before I...before I, _you know_. Before Sophie."

Some small snail of dread is waking up in my stomach, rolling around...crawling up my throat.

"I'm probably just tired. I don't...I didn't sleep well this weekend."

_Nothing like hearing your dead child scream for you to disrupt your sleep..._

"That's why you came to work, isn't it? You were...afraid."

It's hard to think of Patrick Jane being afraid of much. He almost obliviously throws himself into danger every day. Physical danger, at least. This time, the danger is in his mind, a dangerous thought, a memory that isn't a memory at all. His fear of what happened that night - that they suffered. That his little girl, specifically - suffered, and needed him, and called for him.

No one can battle phantoms of the mind that are so deep seated. There is no escaping the fact that he has no idea what she went through, or if she died in pain, or fear. Or if she died calling out to him.

"I didn't...I didn't want to hear her anymore, " and he half chokes on a sob, looks up at me, his eyes full and wet, "and I think she knew, because then she started crying more and more."

_Oh God._

"It's not _her,_ sweetheart. It's just the fever. She's not in any pain. She's not crying for you."

I have no idea how we got onto this subject. This is the one subject that Jane never talks about, and here he is - not just alluding to the events that forever altered his life, the events that nearly destroyed him - but willingly discussing his pain.

"But maybe she did. Maybe she _did _- and I wasn't there. I wouldn't know...and what if she was calling for me, and I never came? Or what if her mom died first, and my little girl...what if she was still alive, and afraid, and-," he stops talking then and presses his hands to his eyes, and makes a horrible noise. Anguished.

My airway feels constricted. Never mind Jane, *I* can't talk about this anymore. Not right now.

"I know this is something you need to discuss," I start, shakily, but willing my voice to firmness, "but first we need to work on getting your temperature down, okay? I want you to drink this," and I hold out the beverage, trying to keep my voice from faltering. One of us has to stay strong.

He takes it and eyes it suspiciously, but doesn't put up a fuss and takes a sip.

"Grape," he croaks, his voice hoarse, as if he had been crying for an extended period of time. I suddenly wonder just how much he has cried these last few days.

"Mmm," comes my noncommittal reply, "and you need some...real sleep. Come on."

* * *

"In," I order, when he makes no real motion to do so himself.

He slowly lowers himself to the bed, and I catch a slight rosy blush spread across his cheeks. If he weren't so sick, so terribly upset, I'd likely tease him about it.

But at any rate, I've never seen Jane blush before - and all things considered, this seems like a rather innocuous event to trigger such a response.

"What's wrong?"

He wipes at his eyes, and leans in towards my pillow.

"It smells like cinnamon too...," his voice is still laced with pain, but I can tell he's embarrassed by what has happened in the last 10 minutes and is now trying to save face.

I'm starting to believe that Jane is as accomplished a master of hiding his natural responses as he is a mentalist, an emotional intuitive. And now, being sick, he either has lost a lot of control in that arena, or is too off kilter to consider how he's being perceived. But I don't say anything.

Before I pull the covers over him, I help him take off his socks, which feel sweat drenched. At first he protests, but I know he must feel uncomfortable.

"You can't sleep in damp clothes, Jane. You might actually catch a chill then, and make everything worse."

Rolling the socks up in a little bundle, I toss them in the general direction of my clothes hamper, making a mental note to wash some of his stuff later.

He's about to turn onto his side, when I hold out my hand, in expectation.

"Vest, shirt."

"Lisbon-," he starts, and I suddenly feel a little guilty for making him feel so uncomfortable. Which, truthfully, was not my intention at all.

"You can't feel good covered in sweaty clothes, Jane. You won't get a good sleep. Besides, that vest is keeping your temperature elevated. The idea is to bring it down."

He unbuttons the waistcoat slowly, gingerly, as if it pains him to do so.

I take it gently, and fold it in half, placing it over the chair near my laptop.

When I turn around again, his eyes are fixed on the bedspread, his shirt clinging to his body as if he'd been caught in a thundershower.

"Okay, Mr. Modest, you can borrow one of the huge SFPD rookie shirts I stole from my boyfriend if this is such a deal for you..."

I riffle around in my clothes drawer, trying to dredge up the garment.

"Boyfriend?," he queries.

"Well, ex-boyfriend, now. Hence the "steal." Here," and I chuck the shirt over to him. It's a short sleeved grey shirt, and possibly the softest material I've ever touched in my life. Actually, it's so soft and baggy that it normally doubles as my nightshirt, but I have no real intention of letting Jane know this.

He looks at the shirt warily, picking at a loose thread by the sleeve, but making no start to get changed.

"Come on Jane. It's just a t-shirt. It's not going to bite you."

His eyes dart over his lap, and I can sense fresh anxiety bubbling to the surface.

"Do you have anything with long sleeves?"

An odd request, and the fact that he's not meeting my eyes has me feeling...bothered.

"Nothing that would fit you. Why?"

His throat moves convulsively. I can tell he wants to say something, but doesn't know how to start.

Not only that, his anxiety is quickly becoming my anxiety, because if I thought his primary reason for not wanting to change was modesty - then that would be it, over and done with... But he has specifically requested a long sleeved shirt, so I know that it's not so much that he is having trouble wearing something of mine.

More like...he doesn't want me to see him change.

Even more like...he doesn't want me to see his _arms_, specifically.

"What's going on with you, huh?," and my voice, remarkably, is as tender as I feel. I don't even try to hide it. Because I know he's wrestling with something major, and the last thing he needs is for me to sound removed, distant.

He looks at me briefly, and I catch it then - his shame.

"I, uhh, I have some scars. I didn't want you to see them," and he looks away, his entire face burning red.

My heart beats triple time, and I quell my fear.

"Jane..."

But he ignores me until I reach for one of his fidgeting hands.

"Patrick, come on. No jokes now. What sort of scars are we talking about here?"

He's trying to school his face to look impassive, and overall, I would say he's doing a pretty good job. But I know him too well now. I can sense the desperation under the surface.

Jane continues to look everywhere but at me, although this time he does speak.

"I told you...I...before...?," he stops, composes himself, "remember I told you that I was in the hospital?"

I nod, slowly, "a locked ward."

"I...didn't...cope very well after. After they were killed. Obviously. I made some cuts... that's it. That's...all."

_That's all? All?_

"Cuts?," I feel as if I've been sucker punched. This is too close for comfort.

He nods mutely, shifting in the bed.

"I didn't want you...to know. I didn't want you to think...oh, I don't know..."

He's not meeting my eyes, and I can see his self-loathing. The way he is probably mentally beating himself up right now.

"Jane...people...do all sorts of things when they are under profound stress. Or when they've been traumatized. I can't even fathom what you went through. I can't...fully...get my mind around how _horrific _that time must have been for you-"

I hear him swallow, and will myself to continue.

"If someone is under huge stress, they sometimes turn to self-injury to cope. To numb themselves. It happens more often than you'd think, I bet. A lot more often."

He looks up at me sharply then - the fever causing him to look a little more wild and flushed, but otherwise coherent. His eyes look darker now, steely, conflicted.

My words have obviously reached him, brought him back to the present.

"No, no...I didn't. I didn't cut to..._hurt_ myself. I never, I didn't...I don't _cut._ Not like that. Not to injure," he looks alarmed, and is desperately searching my face, trying to catch my eyes, "I tried to kill myself, Lisbon. I didn't want to live anymore. That's why...why I had to go into the hospital."

His words are barely more than a whisper, and his eyes are searching mine, calculating, contemplating. I suddenly feel naked, and this time I look away.

I hear him take another sip of his drink, before he pulls the blanket up over his body and changes under the covers (so, in a sense, he _is _a little modest).

For some reason, I find myself both a little shocked at just how sensitive he is, and also a little amused.

When he's done, I take the shirt and pants, and fold them as well. But not before marvelling at how warm he now feels to the touch - how hot his hands are as he passes me his clothing while I try desperately to not look at his arms.

_He'll share when he wants to. When he can._

"Get some sleep, Jane," I mutter, while his head connects with the pillow, his eyes closing almost on contact.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title - Little Stars - Part 3**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Feverish!Jane Protective!Lisbon

**A/N** - Happy Halloween, guys! :) My work schedule, unfortunately, has been CRAZY these last few weeks. I should have a chapter of **_Redress _**up within the next week or so... I really feel awful for all these delays! But, on the plus side...I'm not abandoning any of my WIP's :)

* * *

Jane has restless legs syndrome - amongst other things.

I discover this as I go to check on him in late afternoon, the window open slightly, a soft breeze ruffling the drapes. At first I see a slight rippling amongst the duvet, and am concerned - wondering if he's having some sort of nightmare.

_I wouldn't be surprised._

But his legs are striking out like an infants - and I sympathize. I dealt with the condition myself... when I was a newbie cop. I chalked it up to anxiety and stress during the McTeer case, but found it accompanied my insomnia. I just felt so keyed up, wound up, really - like I needed to move, strike out, release the inner spring before it kept winding and winding and breaking.

Eventually my brother Tommy encouraged me to get this drinkable magnesium mixture, and take melatonin, get my iron tested.

Tommy is a fixer, a researcher. If someone is dealing with something, he'll do all sorts of research, report back, and try to solve all of your problems.

I remember chuckling back then, yet indulging him because I knew it would make him happy. So I took these iron pills and magnesium pills, ran in the mornings, even attempted meditation - just to keep him from worrying and demanding that I see a sleep specialist. And - after awhile, that keyed up feeling subsided and I found I could fall asleep a lot more easily. Of course, the McTeer case ended around that time too, although I will always chalk up the the disappearance of symptoms with the folk remedies my brother made me take. Certainly over any sort of psychological stress. The idea that something could ever be really wrong with my _mind_...is a thought I would never want to entertain.

And that's what I'm thinking about - that, and how to possibly sneak some magnesium mix into Jane's grape juice - while I watch his jitters subside... only to be replaced a few minutes later by a creased look on his face, the furrowing of eyebrows, the grasping of my sheets in little tufts beneath his hands, his knuckles white.

_'I should have known that nightmares wouldn't be far behind...'_

When someone has a fever, they'll often experience odd, surreal nightmarish dreams _anyway_. That's common. The extreme heat seems to do something to the brain - seems to act on the system not unlike a hallucinogenic drug.

I remember that shortly after my mum died, I had a bout of scarlet fever, and dreamed that my mother had turned into a horse, a horse with long trailing root arms and legs who would wade through the vegetable garden that we had outside, neighing and looking for food.

I dimly recall that she could only come out into the "real world" when it stormed red-lightening, when everyone was inside the house - which meant that she was always alone, in her little horse-and-root body. And in the dream - it was my job to feed her old scraps of apple and corn, her horse mouth chewing away in exaggerated elliptical movements, her eyes fixated on mine - her human, haunted, mother eyes showing such profound terror at being trapped in a horse's body.

I remember that I woke up screaming bloody murder, absolutely terrified, but also so grief-filled that my dad rushed into my little flower-alcove room...and was actually _nice_ to me - probably because this was before the drinking got the better of him, and he really didn't turn into a bastard until he started drinking excessively.

But more than anything else, I can recall how strange I felt physically - discombobulated and outside of myself, and how shocked I was to feel the sheets drenched in sweat so profuse, that for one mortifying moment I thought I had wet the bed like a baby. In fact, it was the only time in my life that my temperature spiked so severely that I wound up needing an ice bath.

I'm really hoping that this won't be something Jane will ever need. An elevated temperature can be serious enough to warrant it...although the way I heard it explained afterwards, even as a petite 78 lb seventh grader, I needed all_ three _of my little brothers to hold me down while my dad covered me in large ice packs from the freezer.

I can't even imagine the fuss Jane would put up if I tried to take away another one of his _blankets_, never mind tried to convince him that he needed to be doused in ice. The thought is almost an amusing one and for one insane spark of time, I almost contemplate telling him that's what's needed. Just to see his expression. But I push away the mischievous thought, along with the rabble rouser in me who never really died out - and wait patiently besides my friend, holding his hand in one hand, softly telling him to go back to sleep, to rest.

I wait for the torn look on his features to recede, and suddenly find myself terribly tired.

* * *

I don't know how long I've been dozing against the end of the bed - my body firmly entreched in my computer chair, my shoulders and head hunched over, my arms crossed over Jane's

But I wake up with a start, my heart in my mouth, the pounding in my chest severe enough that I press my hand to my body and will the hammering to die down. I have no idea what caused me to wake up so abruptly, although as I move about I can feel a distinct crick in my neck; I release it with a pop as I move my head from side to side and woozily aright myself.

And that's when I see the first of the soft, feather-light _'no's' _start to form on his lips.

I move from my seated position on the bed and reach out for his forehead.

Jane's warm, but not excessively so, and I'm pretty sure that he feels a little better than he did a few hours ago. The bedside alarm clock glares at me in yellow neon square numbers - quintessential 80's kitsch - informing me that it's now 7:22. So we've both been asleep at least four hours, possibly more.

Looking back down at Jane, I shake him lightly, hoping I can rouse him with minimal effort, and for a second he stills, the word _"please"_ dying on his tongue - only to let out what can only be described as a wail. A high pitched cry - completely desolate.

"Jane, wake up. Wake up now!," and I want to speak with firmness and authority, but I can't help but talk in a voice that's not much louder than a whisper, my heart in my throat. I mean, I always knew he must have gone through hell, and I know - in part, at least - how poorly he sleeps. It's why on our first main case together, I went ahead and called up a doctor so he could get some help.

But _this_...

Jane's sub-conscious isn't filled with the normal psychological mines that we all have - scattered about here and there. His mind is a complete battle zone, an unending war zone. When other people close their eyes to go to sleep, they probably do so in the solid appreciation that they will get some rest.

So maybe that's it...maybe I'm just not prepared for this degree of torment. Not if this is what he deals with most nights. There's no way anyone can be so plagued at night, rest so atrociously, and then come to work and do what he does - joke around, tease, even flirt, mess with people in that impish-Jane way.

There's no way anyone can DO that and then go home to _this_. To screaming-fests and nightmares and pleading with a God you don't even _believe in _to save your wife, your little girl. Not nightly. He shouldn't be able to do what he does. Deal with this horror, and then play it cool all day. But somehow he does.

I swallow down the swollen mass of unshed tears and pain - for this man, for my friend - and approach him with greater resolution as the cries increase in volume.

"JANE," and I reach out, shake him gently, noting that the shirt I've given him to sleep in isn't really that damp, and he feels a little cooler to the touch.

He recoils away from me, his face contorted.

"Come on sweetheart," I whisper, the words tumbling out of my mouth all on their own, and before I've actually realized what I've said - I try again, louder, this time not touching him, "PATRICK. Wake up."

It seems to work and he groggily sputters about for a second, sucking in his mouth as if he's tasted something bitter, gummily half-chewing on his lip while a certain stillness invades his body and replaces the previous tremors.

"Lisbon?," and his voice is dry, but at least he has his bearings.

"Y...yeah. Hold on...let me get you something to drink."

I pull the pitcher from the nightstand, and top up his glass, handing it to him cautiously.

His hands are shaking.

"How do you feel?," I try evenly, solidly. I know what it's like to feel exposed.

He just stares at his lap, blinking back tears.

"F-fine," he tries, wrapping his arms around his chest. His behavior screams self-preservation, guardedness. It's a trait I normally associate with myself - not Jane. Not Jane, who digs and sees and knows things about people, and doesn't mind teasing someone until they are red in the face.

I reach out to touch his forehead, on instinct.

"I think your fever has broken...but I'd like to check, ok?"

He nods, almost imperceptibly, his face still cast in pain - the hurt of his dreams still very full and newly borne in his consciousness.

It's almost old-hat, this routine now. He lets me put the thermometer under his tongue, and we wait. A moment later, I check his temp.

"101.9 - good. I was worried I'd have to douse you in ice."

A trace of a smile at that.

"Hey - it's not funny. I had scarlet fever when I was 12. My dad had to bring down my fever with an ice bath."

Jane picks at the edge of the shirt, where a thread has come loose.

"I can't imagine you just..._let_ your dad put you in an ice bath, Lisbon," he says, softly, still not sounding like himself.

"Oh no...apparently I went kicking and screaming."

Another hollow smile...the type where you contort your face to make an attempt at looking cheery. But it's false, and the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

More fiddling with seams, more inwardness, quietude. I'm not used to this side of Jane. I've seen Jane when he's angry, even depressed, but not this quiet, this soft. He almost seems like a different person right now. Much more vulnerable, sensitive, able to be...broken. Something tells me that this is more of a truthful representation of how he often feels than just about anything else I've been exposed to in the last three years.

And then he moves, and I catch the smallest white band of knotted scarring as he shifts about. He told me about the scars, but I hadn't really...taken them in, seen them, linked the image to the pain I know he's in now, often. Maybe always. Because can pain that massive...ever just go away? Doesn't it always linger about, just a bit? I look away quickly, feeling like I've intruded his privacy, and he catches my action, glances up.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, and I see him tense, close his eyes for a quarter second, then re-cast a mask of okayness and 'I'm fine, Lisbon'-ness that he so often tries to portray.

I reach out for his hand, awkwardly, not knowing if I'm making things worse, or if I should just shut up and be quiet.

"You don't have to...be...ashamed, or anything. You don't have to hide. Not from me."

He tries to meet me, at eye-level, his own eyes looking so conflicted and intensely aware and upset that I know why he then looks over me, away from me - up and over my head. He is ashamed - it's as clear as day.

"I wasn't...you know...in a good head-space then," he tries to brush off his suicide attempt with indifference, shrugging his shoulders. Like, 'oh well, my family was murdered...these things happen.' Emotionally, he's lying to himself if he's trying to convince himself that anything he's undergone can be seen as merely unfortunate. I can't imagine what sort of psychic wounds Jane has to cope with...and frankly, I don't even want to attempt so.

"It's not...the scars I can see that worry me, Jane. It's the scars that I _can't_ see."

The arms tighten even further around his midsection, and for a mentalist, I'm wondering how he's lost sight of just how vulnerable this action makes him look. I guess everyone gets tired, and let's their guard down at some point. Which might just explain why Jane opts for such a mask so often. He's tried to make the mask his face, using it so frequently that no one else can really catch on to just how much pain he lives with on a day to day basis.

"I don't...not usually...they aren't quite so bad, usually."

Not so bad? He was almost _screaming. _

I sit down beside him, taking a sip of my own drink - rum and coke.

"Nothing helps?"

He looks uncomfortable, and I all at once wonder what he's thinking, his cheeks now burning red.

"Not...consistently, no. Trust me," and he finally, _finally_ - meets my eyes again, "if something really worked, I'd do it."

This time he lets me capture his hand with mine, doesn't pull away. He's still overly warm, and I can feel the heat generated by his body from this short distance.

I grasp his hand a little more, give it a light shake. _I'm here, I'm here... _

"What about talking to someone?"

He looks a little off-put at the suggestion.

"I mean, I know you don't like shrinks, but maybe...a good one...a really good one...could help you?"

His hand leaves mine, and comes to rub at his eyes. He looks so pale, still - the redness of earlier rapidly dissipating. It makes me want to treat him...cautiously...

"What is that going to do? What can that possibly accomplish?," and his voice is shaking. "How am I going to sleep better...remembering? Remembering them? How I found them?"

"Maybe-"

"No, Lisbon. I start talking about them...and I...I can't stop. I won't be able to...it...I don't want to..."

I don't know if he means he wouldn't want to stop talking, or if he doesn't want to start.

"Jane-"

"It hurts...too much to talk about them. It's hurts too much to even_ think _about them..."

I can't say anything to that; it hurts a little, still, just to think of my mother. And I didn't go through anything compared to what Jane went through; sure, my experience was traumatic. Jane's was...soul-destroying. There's no other way to put it.

And my wounds are older, the scars far less thick and far less roped around my heart. The pain doesn't...strangle me, as I suspect it does him.

"It reminds me of when I was in the clinic. And I hated myself then, Lisbon. I absolutely *hated* myself. I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror. My own image made me sick..."

His eyes are completely closed and my heart is thunderous in my chest.

"Jane, no - please don't talk like that-"

His eyes flash red, I'm sure of it. For a nanosecond - red-rage, inwardly directed, but seen.

"It's true!," he stresses, his blond hair matted in damp curls against his forehead. "Sometimes I really, really **_hate _**myself."

_Sometimes_...that's present-tense. Jane's not talking about old, dead memories. Old, dead pain. Jane is mentioning **_sometimes_**. Sometimes, and present-tenses, and hatred. All together.

A sea creature is swimming around lazily in my stomach, trying to eat through my bowels. I feel cold, suddenly and implosively.

He looks at me, and his look is one of pure self-deprecation. Never before had I seen it this clearly. Not this...transparently, to paraphraze the man before me.

"You knew...I was screwed up. Just not this screwed up."

"Don't," I rasp, suddenly exhausted. I've not been awake for twenty minutes, but I'm so tired right now.

He pulls away again, and the air is colder.

"I'm sorry," he tries, now, a few seconds later. "I...here you are trying to help me, help me feel better and I'm-"

I cut him off, not to be rude. I just can't take any apologies right now. Not from him.

"You have NOTHING to be sorry for-"

Wet eyes, wet cheeks, pale and damp and lips taking away saltiness, a pink tongue laping at the moisture.

"I have everything in the world to be sorry for, Lisbon. And it doesn't matter, because I can't - they'll never know. I just wish they knew just that...**_I wish_**-"

I pull him into a hug. He might be too broken to fix, he might just be.

But I feel something I haven't felt in such a long time. The need to try - to fix him, to...

_love him._

I don't want to think about that conceptually right now... of me_ loving _Jane, because I know I do; I know that I love him as assuredly as I know my eyes are green. Actually, I know it_ more_, but I can't contemplate on what it means right now.

Like..._how_ I love him. If it's love, platonic, but strong. Or something more.

Because loving Jane scares _me_ maybe as much as talking scares _him_. I quickly push the thought away, relieved that there are no extant messy emotions further clouding the night. No romantic feelings, nothing sexual.

This overwhelming sense that I do care for him, maybe more than anyone else I've ever known - that's heady enough for me right now.

He wipes at his face timidly, as if he doesn't want to raise my awareness to the fact that he's been crying, soundlessly - tears spilling over too-blue eyes all on their own.

"You really don't think that you matter, do you Jane? I mean, you were completely serious when you said that you hate yourself."

His head shakes back and forth a second before he speaks, "I-that's _not_ what I said. I didn't say that I HATE myself. I just said-"

"You _said_...that you can't even stand to _look at yourself_, sometimes. That you_ hate your own reflection_."

He huffs at that, looking embarrassed, "I did - before, long before, when I was sick. Not sick, but-"

He's not avoiding this. He can push away shrinks, CBI appointed or not. But he can't push away _me_.

"You said...'sometimes', Jane. In the present tense. And I never...understood, before. With Kristinam I mean. When she said that first time how...you loathed yourself. I thought she was trying to push your buttons, and maybe she was - in part. But she wasn't lying, was she? You loathe yourself?"

He winces then, actually winces.

"Is this because of the scars? I-they're...old, Lisbon. I'm not in that place anymore."

"Aren't you?"

Blankets now - he's pulling the blankets up, and around his body. Like he's trying to subconsciously shield himself. From me. And I feel guilt mixed with anger, and the anger is raw and not caused by him, but is circulating through me all the same and can't be tidily put away. There is too much of it - that anger.

And I'm so angry for all the victims, but in this moment I can connect that word and concept and reality to Patrick Jane. In the past, not so much. I intellectually knew he was a victim. I couldn't feel it in its staggering honesty. Not when he would make me origami animals, flat out lie to psychologists, push everyone's buttons to close a case. He seemed so flippant. It was hard to understand just how real and pressing and omnipresent his pain was...and still is.

"What...what are you thinking about?," and it's his turn to sound scared.

Knowing that he can spot a lie a mile away, I know I have to word my next few sentences carefully, so I take another sip of my rum, letting it burn its way pleasantly down my throat, heating my belly. Giving me courage.

"I'm thinking many things. Like...how much I care about you - and how much I hate to see you sick, upset - all of it," I barrel on, praying he won't ask me to qualify what I mean by _'care'._

"I wish I could take all that...pain away for you."

His eyes are holding mine now, moving back and forth quickly, speedily, as if he's trying to really see me, look past me. When it gets too quiet, I speak again.

"I'm not good at talking, either," I mutter into my cup, inhaling the scent of the rum and the bubbles of the coke, which burn my nostrils.

I see him swallow, his Adam's apple holding still, constricting, pushing down.

"I'd say you can talk about things pretty easily, Lisbon," and his voice is quieter again, soft. "I'm sorry I dumped all this on you."

It's when he does that - states something like that - about how he's this... inconvenience or something, when really my heart breaks for him.

I take another sip of the alcohol, grab his hand, squeeze.

Words can only say so much.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title - Little Stars - Part 4**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Feverish!Jane Protective!Lisbon

**A/N:** not amused with the closing events featured in the most recent episode - _**Red Hot**_. Oh...Mr. Hellllller..._what do you think you're doing_? (insert: sing-song voice)

But seriously..._ jeez Lisbon_! Mashburn has _nothing_ on Jane, or are you blind?

Oh well, I will survive my disappointment, I'm sure (by - no doubt - taking to mass-Jisbon-fanfic-reading excursions in the hopes that that fateful scene can be expunged from my memory...)

I'm not obsessed with this show, or anything. :)

* * *

Jane can be a little finicky. I know this well.

And not just from the three times Rigsby has tried to make him tea (all three during a period where he couldn't see), and the three times he turned down said tea due to it being 'off'.

_"Tasting weird," _he had said at the time.

But come on - it's tea. Tea and milk. How weird could it have tasted, unless Rigsby had added salt to the cup instead of sugar, or something equally demented?

It's not just those occasions that have convinced me of the fussiness suffused within Patrick Jane, however.

One time I actually ran into him at a local superstore. Amusingly enough, I spotted him first - stashed between the tea aisle and the crackers and chips section. A quick glance at his cart revealed foods and items I hadn't recalled seeing before in all my years of frequenting the place - although they must have always been offered. Maybe they were stashed in an aisle for the finicky? - because there you had it: Marmite, plum jam, black currant juice, three bars of European dark chocolate with hazelnuts, gourmet gingersnaps, Woolite, three different kinds of earl grey tea, cilantro and... grey poupon mustard.

I almost laughed right then and there - not seeing the typical food items that should have accompanied his cart of what largely seemed to be made up of condiments. I mean, what did the man plan on doing - eat plum jam on its own?

"Boo," I had hissed then, alerting him to my presence - and he had looked up abruptly, his expression almost timid (which made me feel fleetingly guilty - as if I had shocked some easily frightened animal instead of my rascal-of-a-consultant).

But mostly...he seemed genuinely surprised, and I can remember chuckling - pleased that I had been the one to startle him for once. Of course, he had to dispel my amusement by allowing a large open smile to split his face, as if he was _happy_ with what had happened. Infuriating man!

He didn't say _'don't do that!'_ or anything comparable to what_ I would have _blurted out (or a normal person) if the roles had been reversed. All in all, my deliberate attempt to startle him didn't seem to generate any ire whatsoever. Although I also came to the sudden realization that he must have been an inexhaustibly patient father. Had it not been for that sick bastard Red John...his little girl probably would have had a pretty idyllic childhood, all in all. Maybe a bit on the spoiled side, but given the emotional poverty of my own youth, I'd be greatly relieved if I knew more children had fathers like Jane.

I mean, seriously - the man was ideal for parenthood in some respects, fussiness aside. Or maybe, not even aside, because even though his own temperament was particular...that precise nature always came a far second place to the needs - the real needs - of anyone else around him. And deep down I also suspect, he hadn't been quite that particular when he had a wife, a daughter. If anything, their loss probably culminated in an outwards manifestation of compulsiveness. I've seen it before, in cases of grief, loss. I've dealt with it myself.

As it happened, after Jane recovered from his brief surprise at my presence, he reverted back to the (apparently) all-consuming task of grocery shopping - extending an invite to me at the same time as he placed both boxes of wafers - gently, as if they were delicate china - into his cart - winsome smile never leaving his face.

"That must have been some _fascinating _reading," I laughed - still quite amused that he had gotten so wrapped up in comparing something as mundane as wafer ingredients. Actually, mundane isn't really the right word, because that would imply that comparing wafer ingredients is something that a normal person would do with any regularity in the first place. I smirked at this realization as his smile faltered just a bit at my words.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here, Lisbon," he started up again, warmly, his eyes darting over to my cart now, too - a brand-new half grin in place as if he wasn't surprised one bit with my selections.

Not like they were anything like his: bulk laundry detergent, an unhealthy selection of cheese pizza pops, Colgate toothpaste and a bunch of prepackaged salad mixes.

"Where is your...you know...actual _food_?," and I gestured to his cart, still amused, and not wanting to let go of the feeling too quickly. It had been a hard day, and seeing that Jane's selections read like something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel...well...

He squinted for a second, as if not understanding the question, before asking, "well, I could ask where your non-fluoridated toothpaste is, Lisbon. I mean, _really _woman - that stuff is just awful for your health. I can show you where they keep a strawberry flavoured one without that poison, if you'd like?"

And that had been that: for the next hour I shopped with Jane, never really being quite so taken with grocery shopping - a task I had always considered insufferably boring. But Jane made it fun somehow, and I remember wondering if there really was any sort of routine day-to-day activity that he _couldn't_ spin around and make interesting.

I doubted it.

* * *

Now Jane is pale, and sickly, and lacking in enthusiasm for anything much besides sleeping - although I feel a little better knowing that his fever has broken. Both being tired, we had managed to fall back to sleep somehow - and the memory of this really eludes me - I had fallen forward or come to take up residence near him in my bed, because I'm now woken by a slight shifting, strongly aware of the slight string of warm breath against my neck as he turns against me. I combat shivers.

Apparently we had both nodded off together...and if _that thought _alone isn't sufficient to cause my heart to race, then this next one is: in the middle of our rest period his arms had come to wrap around my waist, holding onto me as if I were some sort of living pillow.

Jane? A _cuddler_? And I almost snort, the idea both wonderful and unexpected.

For a second, I almost wish I had a cell phone - and not just to blackmail him with shots of his apparent clinginess, although that would be tempting. But no...mostly as from this angle his face is at such peace that I can see (and this will sound silly) a certain rare beauty in the man. No furrows, no tension in his jaw, no aggravating comments spilling from his mouth.

Just this look of... innocence.

A word I would have never associated with Jane previously. But now, in this moment in time, it fits. It fits better than anything else. And if I'm honest with myself - truly honest - Jane (for all of his awareness of human physiology, and his ability to read and study others) is at times pretty innocent in certain respects. In atypical ways. Despite the horror of his past, he sometimes seems so charmingly content that I almost have to remind myself of who he is, what he's suffered, lived through... Because aside from the few cases that featured Red John - aside from those - nothing of the darkness of his past really can be seen with any regularity. It's as if certain things don't register for him, and he's either suppressed (not healthy) a lot of it. Or else he's repressed an even larger amount of it (which is really not healthy).

And here he is now - drowsing like a child, totally at ease. And I feel a swell of affection for him that is so strong and so _certain_ that it almost scares me in its intensity. Because it's a recent feeling, newly borne, and not at all familiar. I - Teresa Lisbon - don't feel like this about _anyone_. In fact, truth be told, I don't even know exactly what I'm feeling - and that's half of what I'm finding so concerning.

I mean, if I had to describe the emotions, the emotions coursing through me right this second as Jane holds onto me (as if I'm a human-pillow-lifeline...) they would be hard to describe.

Tender, yes - and certainly _protective_... but part of me wants to say embracing...like warm water dousing me from head to toe. Consumed. **Total.**

Which is ridiculous! Truly ridiculous, because let's face it - Jane's not my type. He _aggravates _me.

Not only that - the feelings that I have right now can't even be termed romantic. They are deeper, more complicated - a strange, hard-to-categorize animal, a hybrid animal of strong-platonic-friendship and something that I worry, deep down, is _wanting to merge_ with the romantic.

Knowing this, I close my eyes, more than just a little aggravated with myself, and how _insane I am for having slipped _for this man. How stupid I have been to have slipped into this valley of thoughts and feelings that I can't even put into tidy boxes or truly understand. It's not...how I normally am, and it makes me feel off balance.

What's more...if I _just _felt physical attraction for Patrick Jane, that would be one thing. But what I feel is so much more complicated - with physical attraction being the least of it - and yet so much more solid - that I know the feeling isn't going to go away as easily as it would if it were a lust-based emotion.

This also scares me a little bit, in all honesty. Because it means I can't just wait it out, or push it away. I can't just pretend it doesn't exist. I can't just pretend_ this _doesn't exist. This...bond, this relationship that isn't quite a relationship.

I'm _so_ screwed.

* * *

His hair - earlier wet down at my insistence as his temperature had spiked - has now dried and I smirk as I take in the golden curls, the soft tendrilled blond locks messily scattered about his head. I can't even think of another man who has hair like his, and I know he feels a little self-conscious at his hair, too - if the manner in which he tries to tame his locks with gel is any indication.

For a quick second, I wonder what I can say to dissuade him of this hair-taming in the future. Because he really does look adorable right now.

_'Stop it, Teresa. Get hold of yourself.'_

Still...I can't stop musing about how as a child he must have looked like an impish version of cupid. I laugh softly into the duvet, quickly stilling myself, and watching to ensure I haven't woken him up as a strong and atypical curiosity hits me. Like a woman possessed, I see myself reach out and touch his head, letting my fingertips softly glide over his hair.

_That's it_...I **need** to ask him what conditioner he uses: his hair feels like silk.

And then I come back to my (very delayed!) senses, and pull back, irritated yet again with myself and my weird emotions that have been messing with my mind all evening. Because seriously - I'm acting like a pre-teen with a crush! It's embarrassing, and if he woke up right now, I'd be mortified.

Moving slightly so that I can extricate my hand from the place near his skull, I almost freeze as he is jolted awake by my movement. He rubs groggily at his eyes as he gets his bearings - still (seemingly) unaware of my presence besides him. With baited breath, I see him give the softest, smallest little yawn before he stretches out his hands, tightening and unfurling his fingers like a stretching cat. Turning, he stills - finally realizing the position he's trapped me in.

He lets go quickly - as if burned - a tinge of rose spotting his cheeks.

_Huh. What about that? I guess I'm not the only one with a blushing problem..._

"Sorry, Lisbon," he says quietly, his voice a little strained as if he's done something terribly shameful.

I wave off his concerns, suddenly wondering why Jane...Jane who flirts more than _anyone I've ever met - _is suddenly so worked up over such a relatively small event.

"It's really not a big deal. I can't believe I nodded off, though. How did you sleep?," and I lightly poke him in the ribs, awaiting his response. For some odd reason, none of this feels foreign to me, or wrong. If I were honest with myself, and him, I'd voice the fact that I actually...feel really good, really well rested. I meet his eyes then, smile at his look of recognition as he studies me - sensing the wheels turning in that formidable mind.

"Hmm? What was that?," and I slowly sit up, orienting myself - not quite chucking out Jane's idea of stretching like a feline. It looks relaxing.

"I feel..._good?_," he says, almost questioning himself as he makes a light jostling movement with his hands. It's as if he's trying to convince me of this fact, his cheeks still quite pink. He then mumbles something else, shuffling about with renewed energy.

"Didn't quite catch you there," I add after a few moments, reaching over for the blue blanket that I had stashed on my bedside table. I chuck it to Jane, who takes it gratefully.

"I feel...safe," he says softly, then seems to clue in to what he's just admitted, and sits up a little, wrapping the comforter around his body. His words reverberate around and around in my skull, as if on a looped tape.

_'I feel safe.' 'I feel safe.' _

Something must show on my face - some slipped emotion, because he clues in then to the enormity of what he's just confessed.

"You're...you're better than one of those lavender sachets, that's for sure." His soft laugh feels a little forced, but I let it go - giving him time to gather his bearings.

"Lavender sachet?," I reiterate and I know I'm smirking now - partly to dispel the deluge of negative emotions that are associated with Jane's admittance that he normally feels...unsafe.

And partly because I can see an unusual anxiety creeping into his eyes, cloaking his body, his movements.

"What about...your fever, your flu? Do you feel...dizzy, weak...nauseous?," and I mock glower at him as if I will string him up by his ankles if he retches on my bed. Not that I'd really revert back to anything other than motherly-protective if that were to happen... After all, an automatic need to care for someone sick is just part of my established personality now - a holdover default setting from raising my three brothers, I suspect.

But Jane also has a way of not really speaking up when he needs something, and if what he needs is a bucket, then...

"Lisbon?," and his voice sounds more alert now.

"Mmm?," and checking the clock I can see it's not even 9 pm.

"Can I get...a shower or something?," and the question doesn't strike me as illogical. Jane's pretty fastidious.

"Still cold?," I test at last, wondering if he's still feverish. I don't doubt it - and from the remnant memory of his hands around my waist, I know just how warm he still feels to the touch.

"Just a little chilled. Not so - icy, but I feel...messy?," he coughs, and then looks up hopefully, "if I wash up, I could call Cho and-"

I stop him in his tracks. "Why do you need to call Cho?"

He gestures with his hands, his eyes large and pressing, "so I can get my Citroen and give you back your bed?"

_'Ha. If he thinks I'm letting him drive back to Malibu and tax himself further while he's still recovering from the flu - he's obviously still out of it.'_

I don't actually shoot him down, his request. I just give him a glance, my voice stable, no humor in my tone.

"Funny guy you are...," and he stares at me dumbly, while I tug at his arms lightly, righting him up into a sitting position (he obviously finds my bed a little too comfortable.)

"Go get your shower," and he nods then, biting his lip, all at once looking nervous.

"Lisbon...I don't want to inconve-," and I snort.

"I think this is the first time you haven't, buster. You are remarkably well behaved when you're sick...you know that?"

He smiles, gingerly, before shrugging his shoulders, his voice faint, distant. "Angela always said that, too."

Angela, I'm assuming - given the lost and dazed look he now sports - must have been his wife. I could kick myself.

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

"Do you want me to wash your clothes? I can put through a small load before you're done with your shower, I bet."

He just stares at me blankly. And I can't get over the fact that given how generous Jane is with everyone else - he must not have been a recipient of too much generosity himself, because he looks like I've stun-gunned him with my obvious insistence that he stay here and get some sleep.

"Do...do you have Woolite?," he asks at last, and I shake my head, amused._

* * *

_

Jane gets a bath, not a shower. But other than that - I wasn't wrong. I DO manage to wash his clothes and have them nearly dry before he's finished with his ablutions (even when I take to washing the clothes on the slower gentle cycle after we finally compromise on Borax, because that's pretty safe stuff. And although I'd go to the store to get him his Woolite if he made him feel that much better, I really don't think it's going to make a whit of difference. So I tell him that, and he finally relents).

Retrieving his grey suit, his vest and shirt from the dryer...I hesitate in proceeding, not really wanting to fold the stuff. I find a couple wooden hangers and remove the not quite bone-dry articles - not knowing if overheating the garments will lead to some problem with the structural integrity of the threads, or some such nonsense.

You never really know with Jane.

Making my way down the hall, I lightly rap on the bathroom door whilst creating a mental inventory of things I can do to make him feel better. I've already turned the kettle on - and while I highly doubt I have a Jane-decent selection of teas for him to choose from, something has got to be better than nothing. I'm pretty sure he must be sick of Grape Pedialyte by now, because he's made his way through the bulk of the stuff, not even bothering to complain or put up a fuss when I nudged him to drink 'just a little more.'

Seriously...if I could keep this newfound obedient-Jane, and still have him retain his gifted perceptual abilities...I'd do so in a heartbeat.

"Jane?," and I knock again, listening with extended concentration - hearing no response.

For a second I worry the poor guy has fallen asleep in the bathtub, and so smirk - the image a little hilarious.

But then - of course - my maternal instincts kick in, and a sudden horrid dread fills me.

"Patrick - you okay?," and my voice is louder now - my mind having just dredged up several different freak-accident scenarios such as Jane getting dizzy and smacking his head, passing out, and drowning in the tub. I push away the image, telling myself to stop acting hysterical and silly before turning the door handle with only minimal reservations. Upon opening I listen again, not really wanting to put Jane in some awkward situation if I've just freaked out over nothing.

But now I know why he hadn't responded - as I take in the sound of light gagging, cringing at the undeniable forcefulness of his heaving. The man really sounds like he's going to bring up a lung or something.

"Jane?," and I don't fully enter because I'm not sure what state of undress he's in. I wait as some of the bathroom steam dissipates as cooler air of the hall streams in. At long last I can see Jane's crouched form over my toilet, one of my larger navy towels wrapped around his midsection. He doesn't even have time to look up as a new bout of nausea plagues him and he heaves into the bowl, grasping the lid so hard that his fingertips have turned white with the effort. I see the briefest spray of purple, and feel guilty for pushing him to drink so much of the stuff.

"Jane - I'm...I'll be right back. I'm going to get you some Gravol, okay?"

I head to the kitchen - which is where I stash all the OTC products - and return a few moments later with a ginger Gravol product. The box says it's a herbal mixture, not technically a drug at all. I smile as I read that, knowing Jane will be less likely to put up a fuss.

When I get back to him I notice that his nausea must have abated somewhat, as he's put down the lid on the toilet, and shut his eyes. His breath comes in rapid inhalations though - as if he hadn't managed to get in any air during his vomiting spiel, and I can see a band of white flesh around his mouth.

Poor guy is still really sick.

"I thought you said you felt better, mister?," and I crouch down low until I am occupying a place on the floor a couple feet away from where he's furled up in a little ball.

He opens his eyes a few seconds later to pull the towel further up on his body. I can see the goose flesh covering his body as his shudders, and I do a quick mental scavenger hunt - trying to recall where I stashed my water bottle. So long as I monitor his fever, there is no reason why he has to be cold now...

"Sorry," he rasps out, drawing his knees up under the towel too, crossing his hands over his chest. I notice he keeps shifting about, a little like he is embarrassed that I can see him in nothing but a towel, and then - suddenly, irrefutably - my own brain kicks into gear. That Jane, indeed, IS only in a towel, otherwise naked. I swallow down a slight, weak jittery buzz in my stomach as he looks up at me, remorseful.

"I'll cl-...clean it up. I promise."

_Promise?_

The man is sick for God's sake. He's been spending the last ten minutes puking up his guts without pause... and the first thing he says once he catches his breath... is that he'll "clean it up"?

Something about the comment disturbs me, makes me feel...I'm not sure. All I know is that my pulse is racing, and not for the aforementioned reason of Jane sitting around in my bathroom in nothing but a towel.

No. His words spark some sort of recognition in me - and I dully note that it's the sort of thing I've heard before - many times, in many various ways - first starting out as a rookie cop in San Francisco, working on cases involving kids. Those were never pleasant. And now, Jane - saying something like that, his voice almost fearful... I shake my head, telling myself that I'm overreacting.

Yet, I feel like I've been privy to something he might not even fully recognize himself, because if he knew how his words would sound, if he had any conception of what that would sound like to a cop, to a detective - I doubt he would have spoken at all.

Actually, in my gut - I feel as if he's admitted to something pretty awful and I work hard to push aside my reaction, telling myself it's just Jane being Jane. Just Jane being _fastidious._

But part of me suspects that there is something else under all his layers of known pain. The staggering pain - more resolute and outstanding. The anguish of losing a child and a wife he loved with such true, full intensity that he still wears his wedding ring, still tries to hold her memory close, still fixates on killing the beast that took away their lives.

And let's call a spade a spade. Jane is nothing if not gun-resistant. Nothing if not naturally...gentle. Genial. Forgiving.

_And yet..._

I stop myself from opening up a new and unarguably messy can of worms, and collect myself before talking again.

"No. You won't. Clean anything up, that is. You'll take this Gravol - it's herbal, no worries - and get back to bed." And his eyes open slightly at my words, his whole frame trembling - from the cold, or something else, I'm not quite sure.

So much for him needing his dandy three piece suit tonight.

* * *

I call Hightower...and let her know that Jane's still very sick. When she presses, I let her know his fever is down (check. Agent Lisbon did her job, yes ma'am), but that he's now begun vomiting.

All in all I don't say too much. I don't want to commit to much more than a simple assertion that he won't be in tomorrow, and possibly won't be back the day after that, either. I can tell that Hightower is about to ask additional questions when I suddenly feel emboldened, the hauntingly odd _"I'll clean it up" _comment still taking up the predominant spot in my consciousness. I feel something achy unfurl in my chest then, and I sense that who Jane is...who he is _deep down_... is a far cry from cocky and presumptuous character he tries to sell himself of as...

Watching him now - out of the corner of my eye as I finish up my conversation with Hightower - I see him settle into the couch which is now freshly made up. It's a pull out, and once Jane learned this fact he becomes quite insistent that if he "had to stay" (and I know better than to be hurt) that he certainly would do so only if he could give me back my bed. Thinking that this is a better scenario then him refusing to stay at all, I agreed.

Of course, the rebel in me almost got a hold of my vocal chords, offering to share the bed. Thankfully...I got control of that insane part of my persona before I said anything of the sort and made everything tense.

* * *

I head to the kitchen to make some coffee as he changes into an over-sized pair of sweats that I've managed to find. A holdover from my brother Tommy's stay, actually. And it works out pretty well, because Tommy is tall, large enough that Jane can wear my brothers clothes with ease.

In fact, Tommy is considerably taller than Jane, even, leading my consultant to role up the cuffs on the pants, prompting his amused query if I'm actually adopted.

"Most siblings are in the same height "neighbourhood", Lisbon," he says with overt sweetness, his voice sounding sore from his recent date with the toilet bowl that I manage to restrain myself from actually slapping him. Instead, I mock-slap his head and he laughs then - actually laughs.

And although he looks and seems better, I've learned my lesson about listening to Patrick Jane's assertions when it comes to his own health - so I don't push my luck and retrieve him a yellow bucket from the laundry room, along with a box of Kleenex.

"What about some ice chips?," and he smiles up at me, looking touched at the mere suggestion that I would do something as out-of-my-way as get him some ice.

"You don't have to mother me, Lisbon," he says, wide grin on his face. "I feel fine."

I want to call him on his lie - or rather, call him on his need to mask over anything troublesome - knowing that there's no way he could have gone from vomiting with such force less than 10 minutes prior...to feeling "fine." I also don't want to get into an argument - something Jane has endless enthusiam and energy for, usually...

"Uh huh," I test out carefully, giving him a roll of my eyes. "I'm sure. But seriously...is the Gravol helping at all?"

He nods then, smile still firmly in place.

"Totally!," he chirps from the couch after a moment, and I suddenly want to know where he gets his energy from...

But for now, I will admit that he might not be fabricating_ too much _of a lie...as he does look a little less pallid, his obvious tremors gone.

"Well, keep that bucket close by, just in case?"

He pats a space on the couch besides himself, and I feel that same soft warmth of earlier creep back into my core.

"Heh - not bloody likely. You almost coughed up an organ earlier, buster. I don't want your germs."

He gives a little-boy pout then. "But you're better than a_ lavender sachet_, Lisbon. Better than_ that_."

The look on his face seems to imply that he thinks this is a great compliment, and I can't help snorting before I grab a pillow and throw from my loveseat, and take up residence...on the floor.

But to quell his objections I still sit near enough to him that he can't complain, and I hand him the television remote. He rapidly moves through the stations to the video-on-demand service page, taking up my offer for a movie with surprising zest for one so sick and in obvious need of more rest.

"Horror...romance...comedy...or..._classics_?," he tries, his voice quirking upwards excitedly on 'classics.' I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

"Your pick, Jane. Just nothing too cheesy, please."

He makes a wounded noise. "Me?...like _cheesy_ movies? What an insult! I thought you knew me better than THAT, Lisbon."

I see him scroll down the list of classic titles - pausing before hitting the order button.

"This okay?," he asks - his voice eager as the title_ Arsenic and Old Lace _is illuminated by the select option key. I really have no idea what the show is about, and hence - no reservations or opinions one way or the other, and tell him so.

He claps his hands together excitedly, "oh - you're going to _love_ it!"

When he turns to me, I stifle a laugh - his hair now fully curled about his head like a golden aura.

"You _do _like Cary Grant, right?"

I smile at him, feeling indulgent - and tell him to just choose something already, while he scrunches up on the couch, his face looking pleased as punch as the opening credits grace the screen.

Putting down the remote, I ease up against the pull-out myself, getting into the show. Getting into it so much that I almost fail to recognize the weighted warmth several minutes later as one of his hands drops down to rest on the crown of my head. It's only when his fingers lightly start to tap out some sort of little beat that I look up.

"You can't be comfortable on the floor," he mutters, semi-absently while he pats the couch again - not quite so exuberantly now as most of his focus is on the film.

Sighing, I cave, and rise from my spot only to sink down onto the couch a few seconds later. He lifts the blue comforter a little bit as if opening the doors to some warm cottony-blue castle, and lets me get completely snuggled in before securing the comforter over the both of us.

He looks happy, and germs be damned - that's enough for me right now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title - Little Stars - Part 5**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Feverish!Jane Protective!Lisbon

**A/N: **Oh you guys! You are all so very, very awesome :) Thank you for the fantastic reviews! They made my day (and I was having a pretty pathetic day before I got around to checking my gmail - so merci!)

* * *

Maybe a movie was a bad idea.

No. Stop.

Rewind.

Maybe a _Cary Grant Comedy Classic_ was a bad idea.

In my attempt to calm Jane's nerves, all I seem to have accomplished is to stir him up.

I mean, you wouldn't give Pixie stix to a four-year old, unless you had rocks in your head, right?

Most adults know that little kids turn into hyperactive gremlins if you poor anything with sucrose down their at-times insufferable little throats.

So...in that vein...you shouldn't, likewise, indulge Patrick Jane in his classics-movie obsession unless you are willing to watch (oh, let's say)... minimally three of the oldies with him in one go.

I'm quickly coming to realize that Cary Grant is Jane's role model or something. [With honorable mentions going to Gregory Peck in_ To Kill a Mockingbird _and George Peppard from _Breakfast at Tiffany's_].

Seriously! Aren't those the type of films that most women have to bribe and/or blackmail their boyfriends to watch in the first place?

And here I was all gung-ho for _Die Hard _or _Patriot Games_ tonight.

Oh, how I do love role reversal.

* * *

_Arsenic and Old Lace _is finishing up...so of course Jane is raring to go. In fact, he's gone from drowsily content moments before the credits started streaming upwards to now jolt-upright-aware that, _yes indeed!_, **many more **delightful films are still available for rental.

"_Bring Up Baby_? How about that one? Do you like Jimmy Stewart?," he gushes excitedly, seeing that it is yet another one of his "favorite!" films to be offered by the Video-On-Demand service.

"You know, Jane - you're sorta cute in that polished gay GQ sort of way," I rally back a few moments later, not bothering to address his original question. He is, no doubt, stalling for time so he doesn't have to go to sleep. I look over to inform him that I'm onto him, when I catch his eye.

The look on his face is priceless.

"_Gay?," _he sputters, and for a nanosecond I'm worried that I've offended the poor guy.

Of course, I really should know better. I don't think I CAN offend Jane.

_"_I'm too bittersweet chocolatey to be gay! I'm like a dark-chocolate Skor bar to your fun-sized Aero!"

I choke down a sound that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite a snort, raising an eyebrow instead at his boundless capacity for inanity.

"That makes absolutely_ less than no _sense, Jane. I can't even begin to comprehend what the hell you're on about most of the time! You do know that, don't you?"

Truth be told, I do have a sense of what he's trying to say - but hearing him talk so freely, doped up (I suspect) on the lemon flu mix is better than any comedy. Not that I didn't enjoy Jane's commentary while we watched the film, because that was pretty hilarious as well, but...

Let's face it: too much rum and too much Jane concurrently equals a very risky maneuver on my part. If only due to the fact that it weakens my ability to say "no" to the man with any real conviction. And even though all he seems to want to do is watch old fashioned movies at the moment... I still need my sleep.

Tomorrow is still a work day for me at least, and Hightower is likely to be in a pretty persnickety mood. I've already picked up on the clipped blame in her tone earlier when she called. As if**_ I _**was the main cause for Jane's projectile vomiting or something.

_'It's times like these when I really miss Minelli...'_

"Annny-way," the soft voice intrudes my thoughts, "it was an allusion to me not always being gay. As in _happy and gay_?," he feign-huffs, "But obviously **_you're_** not thinking outside of the box tonight, dear Lisbon. So I guess I must prove myself..."

And I pull back suddenly, not really liking the idea that Jane is suddenly consumed with the task of _proving_ his sexual orientation.

_'How do you **get** into these messes, Teresa?'_

I ease away from him in what I hope is a semi-subtle move, not knowing what tricks he plans on pulling.

_'He does have a history of impulsiveness...'_

Although tonight, apparently, I really shouldn't have worried... as he's now listing off **_all_** (and I do mean all!) of the starlets from his favorite classic films. Starlets that he (at any time in his life) was _"a little sweet on." _

The phrase itself is so anachronistic that I can't help but smile indulgently. After all, the man could go on **_Beat the Geeks _**and win a whole whackload of money if there were a Turner Classics Movies edition. I'm sure of it.

_'Not like he needs to win a whole whackload of money, but...'_

"-and of course, Audrey Hepburn. She was my favorite as a kid. I thought she was perfect - all doe-eyed softness. Even when stealing plastic cat masks from a 5 and 10 shop. A classy pilferer! A dignified thief! Now that takes talent!"

_'Okkkkay. I still have no idea what you're talking about now, bud.'_

Of course I rarely do. Even his attempts to prove his manhood are a little peculiar -as it's not as if naming thirty actresses from before 1965 really jumps out at me as the most convincing musings of an... excessively testosterone driven character. But if I say that right now, Jane might just not shut up at *all* tonight.

"And Mary Pickford, too. She was sexy," his dulcet tones cut through my amused thoughts.

"As a kid?," I backtrack, interrupting suddenly.

I'm like that sometimes - especially with Jane, as each one of his comments can have me lost in thought a little too long to keep up with his monologues in their entirety. "You developed a love for black and white films as a _kid?_ Was this_ also _when you developed your peculiar fondness for jade teacups and bergamot tea?," I quip in a voice most saccharine, wanting to know how he'll react to my obvious teasing of his particular tastes.

He stills then - and totally ignores my tone, "well, they weren't _all_ black and white films. Because I'm nothing if not an eclectic soul, as you no doubt have noticed," he smiles to himself, as if not trying to laugh, "Some were in really vibrant candy-colored technicolour. Or should I say really _loverly _technicolor?"

_'Demand he go to bed - now, Teresa. He's obviously losing what's left of his already questionable mind...'_

Still jabbering away when I shake my head, clear away the fog I decide to wrap everything up. My tiredness has creeped up on me - the warmth and gentleness of Jane having lulled me nearly to sleep a second time in one night. And I almost wonder what would have happened had I just...let myself fall asleep. Because - and I'll never tell him this, of course - he wasn't the only one who slept better earlier, who felt good afterwards.

He might feel safe resting near me, but I also felt totally at ease, too.

Which surprised me, I'll admit it. Given that my emotions for Jane are too complex and intense for me to dwell on at the best of times, I've felt remarkably at ease with him, around him, tonight.

And the idea that I could actually...fall back against Jane and watch some wacky film is...very not-me. I would have assumed that anything that physically close would have been fraught with this additional awkwardness. But it wasn't awkward then, and part of me wonders if it's just because he's sick, and therefore not making his typical flirty comments.

But now - of course - I had to rouse and reboot him.

"Which is charming, in its own way...technicolor...," he finishes brightly, his words of the last few moments having been lost to me entirely as I tried to sort out my feelings. He watches me now - his mouth strained to keep from laughing, knowing that he's started his descent back into the more familiar territory of hellishly-aggravating-little-imp.

Yes, I _should _have doused his tea with sleeping meds. That would have been the smart move. Oh well.

Live and learn.

"Nothing quite so comforting as_ technicolor. _It's right up there with cinnamony-mini donuts and lavender sachets."

I chuck the forevermore-designated-Patrick-Jane pillow at his head.

"Go to _sleep_, Jane. Movie's over. And you are apparently lost in a haze of delirium, so..."

"Yeah, yeah - _tease me_. Go on. But know this: it paid off. I was the only three year old in a 100 mile radius who knew all the lyrics to _Animal Crackers_."

"How fitting," I snort into my glass, before nudging him to release me from the blanketed depths, a wide smile refusing to budge from my face, despite my best attempts at smothering it into nonexistence.

Of course the image of a toddler Jane singing along to Shirley Temple is just a_ tad too ridiculously surreal_. He just had to be one of those through-the-roof charismatic children who would have had just about anyone with a beating heart wrapped around their pinky finger.

"Yeah! And as a carnie kid...do you want to know how many free mini donuts Lenora gave me each day for singing songs and boosting sales?"

I have no earthly idea who Lenora is, and I know that if Jane was still not borderline-feverish - he'd have resolute knowledge of this fact as well. That, and the even more looming point of obviousness: he wouldn't have told me half the stuff that he's told me tonight if he hadn't been ill. I'm sure of it. He's not one given to discussing...personal issues. Not if there is some latent smattering of emotionality about the issue.

I realize, suddenly that he's still waiting for my permission to let him tell his story - so I give him my_ 'go ahead' _look at long last.

"I LIVED off mini donuts!," he informs me happily, as if that fact is one of which to be proud.

"Real healthy there, bud," I start, while mentally reminding myself to never give Jane a mini donut.

Or anything with sugar.

Or caffeine.

And certainly not when suffering from a fever.

"Yeah - they were the best," he says, suddenly wistful - and completely oblivious to what I've just said. "All caramelized-cinnamony goodness. I wouldn't have given them up for anything in the world, but apparently I was getting scurvy or something so Dad put his foot down...," he says the last bit with not just the smallest dose of regret either, as I'm set about to tuck the blanket in around him, making up his _I-like-it-to-be-like-a-cocoon, woman!_ bed.

It's only when I start the process of searching for the larger down comforter that what he has said finally registers. I look over at him startled... because, _really_, how negligent do you have to be as a parent for your little boy to develop _scurvy _for God's sake!

And JUST as I'm about to say something - _anything - _I see his eyes light up whimsically. His eyes - two blue-hued fireflies moving about with glee as he realizes I've just fallen hook-line-sinker for his story-telling. I'm about to chastise him when I see his teeth nip into his lower lip to keep from laughing outright.

"JUST kidding, Te-reee-sa! I never developed scurvy! So _gullible_, Lisbon, **so gullible**!"

Feeling marginally better that he didn't suffer neglect of such an extreme - and ready to grill him on if ANY of his story was true, he speaks up again - this time looking far more serious.

"_Rickets _- sure - but THAT'S because all I ever did when I was little was stay inside, avoid the sun, and watch Shirley Temple in_ Curly Top _and_-_"

I can't recall the last time he's chattered on and on so much, and given the extreme lows of earlier - the tears and hellish nightmares - I want to be pleased with this sudden shift in mood.

But I'm not...

* * *

...not entirely.

Because Jane seems revved up to a state of near hypomania. And that is equally disconcerting.

_'He's acting like Gabe, you know...before Gabe got really ill. You know he is acting the same...'_

A surfacing mood disorder would fit.

It would fit with his impulsiveness, his rapid-fire alertness, his past displays of moodiness.

His hypervigilance.

And most of all - his trauma, the all-too probable trigger.

"_**Bedtime Jane,**_" I add resolutely - knowing that if I don't put my foot down that he'll just keep up with his animated chatter.

At the same time, logically... I know why he's doing what he's doing. I know he's trying to stave off the snare of sleep. I know that sleeping is a battle for him - not a period of rest or recovery as it is for me.

And more than anything - I know that his last few years must have been unbelievably dark.

So I know...that this is what he needs. This indulgence. For me to let him talk: be it about his wife, his child, his anger, his self-hatred.

Or if he wants to joke, be silly, laugh - I need to let him do that, too.

What's more - tonight he has admitted to feeling safe (and insinuated, in doing so, that he usually doesn't) - as if that state of internalized peace were foreign, hard to grasp.

I also know, deep down, that a far more self-preserving need is generating his endless questions, his reluctance to give into his fatigue. He doesn't want to go to sleep because he doesn't know what he'll find in sleep - what he'll find in his mind, once sleep fully captures him.

So I'm not surprised that he's hesitant to shut everything done now. As I'm padding away and just about to flip the light switch, I hear his voice resonate hopefully, testing - "Your pick, tomorrow?"

"**You **- _shussh_."

It's what I used to say to Tommy when he was tiny and could curl up into a little ball, stick his head under my chin. It meant: bedtime, now - but was much more polite than telling my 5 year old brother to shut up, like I sometimes felt like doing.

"MY pick, tomorrow - but ONLY if you go to sleep right. this. second. Alright Jane?"

He doesn't respond, but even in the dim lighting I can see the wide grin plastered on his face.

My hand hovers over the light switch for a second, indecisive as I am now.

"Can I get you anything? I think...I have some melatonin or something?"

He shakes his head lightly, his voice - fakely light as well, "no, that's okay, Lisbon."

"Alright then. _Goodnight_, Jane," I say with forced finality as he gives me a little wave, his face still too pale for my liking.

* * *

My own experience with the grief of my mother - the loss so sudden - was a feeling of falling into a bottomless pit...

A huge gaping pit. And my moods vacillated outrageously - from the grey death of emotionless, numbing shock to an all-too-forceful scarlet outpouring of anger and blame and hatred for God and everything else that lived or had been allowed to live now that she no longer did.

My anger over my mother's death totally consumed me for a time. It ripped me apart - those emotions - and made me feel like if I didn't lash out, strike something, do something to physically discharge all the anger and horror and disbelief and grief...that I'd go mad.

Of course, no one is designed to linger in such an intense realm for long. And so by the age of 13, the opposite state started to consume me.

This time the intensity of grief swallowed me whole. It was inexorable. Like the swinging of a pendulum. Or the ebb and flow of a tide. I couldn't have stopped it for all my might.

It was the natural end culmination of too much pain.

And so came the state of blandness, greyness - the complete acedic state of depression without lancing pain. And the numbness was, in a sense, easier to live with but equally frightening to behold objectively; once I got through the weepy nights of sobbing into my pillow, crying until my eyes felt too large for their sockets... all that was left **_then _**was the pitch black darkness.

Total.

Consummate.

It was an episodic death of the senses and a perceived death of my soul. And when, at 14, my Dad began drinking more and more - his drinking quickly spiraling from occasional to constant and out of control - the numbness probably did keep me from losing it. It was almost as if I had managed to coat my brain in mind-anbesol. Nothing stung me, scared me, affected me during that time.

My mom was dead, my brothers were out of control, my dad was becoming drunker and angrier every day - and even, at times, violent, hitting all of us, and mostly me.

And at that point all I could register were the bare bones of life...the skeletal nature of the everyday.

My life became about superficial control: to-do lists I crossed off without satisfaction, assignments that I aced in a lizard-blank way - no joy, no pride in a job well done. I kept going because stopping and self-destructing would be equally as draining as keeping up with the path I was on. And the apathetic me didn' t have the energy to switch direction and sink, even if in some distant way I knew others would notice, and could help me. Help us.

So maybe, deep down, I was ashamed of what we had all become, ashamed of my own needs. And for that reason achieving kept me out of the sights of concerned teachers - and for a long time - concerned child welfare advocates. But at least I was convinced that I - Teresa Marie Lisbon - was in control. Was tough.

Even if the tasks of daily life had been reduced to meaningless ash.

* * *

It wasn't until my father took his own life - shortly after my 16th birthday - that the spell was broken, and I returned back to the land of warm-flesh bodies and music and colours and plants and things that were alive, and therefore felt pain.

It was only when those that I cared about were so close to falling - that I awoke, again.

And Jane? What did he go through, and how could he not have fallen into a state equally as dark, or as frighteningly absent of connection, of reality?

Because, no jokes now - my experience with loss and pain was cut and dry and simple (as guilty as that idea makes me feel, as if to admit to this is trashing my mother and her memory) compared to Jane's. I was a kid who grieved for a mother lost too soon, and a father, also lost to himself.

And my issue with depression back then...it lingered and it tore at the seams of my being until - for a long time - I was nothing but an animated paper doll. A girl with anemic skin and dry hair who went through life as a mechanized being, stealing ideas from Woman's World magazine, making god awful meals for my little brothers on the paltry government benefits that came in the mail.

My brothers... became my world, my reason for rising in the morning, for doing well in school, for not screwing up. And mostly - for taking care of myself.

They became my meaning for _surviving._

But Jane...whose entire sense of meaning was likewise derived in the connection to his family?

How could Jane not have gone through - minimally - what I went though?

Those waves and waves crashing in over him? The swell of emotions so strong that they tore at his heart - and finally, his mind? Or the deaden, laden sense of hopelessness?

The weepy, haunting grief. The mantra - possibly different words for him, but same intent. _'Let me go back. Let me go back.'_

A hated present, a rejected future - forever grieving for the past minus a day, an hour, or a vital, critical moment when life wouldn't have ended in death.

* * *

I close my door softly - not wanting to wake Jane if he's finally (albeit unlikely) fallen asleep. My hair is still damp, but it's too late to really blow dry it now - not without disturbing my guest. I know he's a light sleeper, an insomniac, and he might just get one more shot to get (and stay) asleep. I'm not going to deny him his chance to rest for anything, although I frown as I feel my hair twist and curl and shrink into the slightest ringlets.

I change into my pajamas gingerly - an over-sized academy sweatshirt in hunter green still slung low near by hamper. But it's clean enough - pilly and worn - even if it clashes with cotton boy shorts featuring Eeyore. The Eeyore set was not self-bought, but rather - my brother Gabriel's idea of a joke. Not that I'm that grumpy, truly, but compared to Gabe I've always been an Eeyore to his Tigger. Gabriel the Goof, who - in so many respects - is just a darker haired, more impatient version of Jane.

Grabbing a cotton throw, I decide once and for all to do some reading - and retrieve Jane's personnel file from my briefcase. I had decided to take it home over the weekend, to read up on some sections following a rather unnerving case. Mostly, at the "recommendation" of Hightower, who was pretty disgruntled that I hadn't read up on all the...members...of the team yet.

My reluctance to do so previously was multi-faceted - rooted in not wanting to find out just how deep seated Jane's problems went...

But this last case...well. His behavior really threw me for a loop; now, in light of what has happened today... I don't think I can put this off any longer.

* * *

The file I currently hold is one which contains all mandatory and relevant biographical information, including CBI-relevant psych history notes - that could affect the performance of a CBI agent.

Or any outsourced consultant.

It doesn't include information provided between a psychiatrist and a patient in terms of discourse, nor actual session notes. But as basic protocol - if an agent, or any hire of the department, has a past containing substantial trauma - it's included in their file. For obvious reasons.

I try to tell myself...I'm not betraying his confidence, I'm not doing anything wrong. That...as Jane's boss...I need to know just how much he can handle, and I will best be able to estimate those limits by the recommendations from the appointed doctors and professionals who do these sort of assessments for a living.

_'You should have done this three years ago, Teresa. Minelli would have insisted on it had he known you hadn't even scanned it...'_

So, for the first time ever, I pick up Jane's personnel file - feeling obvious guilt thrum through my veins.

The file is run-of-the-mill typical on the outside. Marked in courier font as _Jane, Patrick A_.

I only wish the internal notes were as basic and predictable.

* * *

I read through the basics, skipping the parts that I already know without question, stalling and then closing my eyes briefly as I get to parts of the report that I know only superficially.

The report informs me that Jane found his daughter first.

It warns me of a possible diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is something I already knew was a likely possibility but pushed away as a topic for some _'at a later date'_ time. Of course, coming from shrinks - it now seems all the more real. THIS - what I'm reading, what it means - seems all the more real because of their authority as opposed to just my...hunches. My own worries and concerns.

I rub at my temples, tension already setting in between my eyes, and I will my jaw not to clench, for my body not to tense.

The file continues on in its terse, clinical prose - warning about extended caution when allowing Jane to work on cases dealing with children, especially cases dealing with violent attacks on children. It informs that his past trauma can play out in a multitude of settings, but that his own asserted guilt was much more emotively expressed in relation to his child, which may mean that cases dealing with kids are likely to be the most...draining for him. And need to be handled very delicately.

The file also adamantly suggests that Jane have at least two consultations with CBI appointed psychiatrists before being allowed to accompany any CBI agent on an official case. As far as I know, this hasn't happened - Jane having only seen one CBI appointed psychiatrist; one later charged with a federal crime.

_'He should have been seen by a professional a long time ago... Avoiding this issue is only going to have made everything more...difficult now...'_

I read some more - wanting to stop - but knowing I can't.

Because here it is - _all of it _- all that I 'knew' but really didn't** know at all**.

Red John, his victims, his patterns - sure. I knew how Red John attacked his victims, and I knew how that monster killed - but I didn't know the details as they pertained to Jane.

I didn't know that Jane spent nearly two days in his Malibu house clutching the body of his dead daughter and his dead wife - before a family member realized something was wrong, came to check on the family... and finally contacted the cops.

And Jane, the file states, told agent McCafferty (upon the senior agent's arrival) that he couldn't feel little Charlotte's heart anymore. That he was "glad they were here" - because he couldn't get her to breathe much, either.

Charlotte Annabelle Jane - the file reports - had curled up into a stone cold corpse riddled with rigor mortis, livor mortis. Accompanying photographs taken shortly after the child had been transported to the morgue - shows a remarkably elfin little girl with skin so pale she looked like a china doll. Her arms and throat were blotched purple and blue from the internal pooling of blood, and black and red would have been visible from the dried slashes made to her throat and torso. The morgue photos - of course - are in a desensitizing black and white - taken after the excessive amounts of blood had been washed away by the medical examiner.

It's a small mercy, as far as photographic evidence is concerned, and a possible reason why I'm not vomiting up myself this instant.

Looking back to the photo now - I can see the child had pale hair that was misleadingly darkened by the washing of her hair. She also had had white-blond eyebrows, and lashes so full that they would have made a supermodel jealous. Squinting, I can also see that her ears had been pierced - two small (undoubtedly ridiculously expensive) gems dotted each lobe.

But mostly, I can sense that she was a cherubic child, and so atrociously little that I can't fathom the evil in had broken through to grab her, harm her. The little girl's features are a cross between those of a baby and those of a school-aged child. My rough estimate gives me a very young child, maybe five or six years of age at the most.

* * *

I can try to imagine that evening... intellectually. What I cannot do or seem to grasp in any real profundity...is the horror Jane would have experienced then, and now...

My mind stops me from going there. My heart stops me from feeling those feelings, and knowing this - I feel ashamed in my ineffectiveness to connect with him, with his pain. It makes me feel...weak.

Pushing aside my own self-deprecatory comments, I turn back to the file and continue to read.

The report says Patrick Jane was unbalanced on the night of EMT arrival. Unbalanced but essentially calm...

And the words on the report fail to compute now, because they make absolutely no sense. When the paramedics arrived...that same dead child would have been even more dreadful to behold than she is in the sterile morgue photographs. Charlotte... drenched in ghastly red, dangling from Jane's gentle hold not unlike a rag doll marred by tempura paint.

So to be essentially calm means...something severe. It means breakdown. Then and there.

And the next sentence confirms this without a shadow of a doubt: _"...we started to lay the child into the body bag. We asked Mr. Jane if he could accompany one of the medics to the ambulance to check for shock. He refused - and said that he wanted to wait with his daughter until she woke up. We indulged him his request to stay behind with his family - until the continued motions of Medic Jamieson prompted him to a state of hysteria. Mr. Jane started screaming at us to take [Charlotte Annabelle Jane] out of the "blanket" [body bag] "right now" or else "she'd suffocate." When other methods of calming Mr. Jane failed, he was administed a high dose of haloperidol, 400 mg."_

At this point, the file seems to indicate that Jane understood that she had been "hurt" but had been so traumatized by the event that he couldn't seem to consider the fact that either his wife or daughter had _died._

After this - there's an unaccounted for period that leaves a disturbing two month hole of time in which Jane was left alone - following a release from a 72 hour hold.

Two months to himself - after his wife and daughter had been collected and processed and buried. And he was left all by himself - to grieve alone - seemingly without any compassionate family or any support.

Knowing this - his grief, and his lack of support...it truthfully makes me want to break something, smash something. I close my eyes then... will myself to count backwards from twenty before carrying on. Carrying on quietly or else possibly waking Jane, a fate that would be considerably worse for all involved right now, because I'm not feeling very calm, and he wouldn't be very calm for long if he knew what I was reading.

There's only about half a page of notes left for me to peruse, though - mostly some basic notes on his attempted suicide. Not much said other than the fact that the attempt was so well researched (the file makes mention of Grey's Anatomy texts found in the bathroom by the EMT team, act two) that he very scarcely survived.

After this entry, there's not a lot more. A brief mention of his extended hospital stay a short while later. An event about two weeks into his stay as well - whereby he superficially cut his wrist in some need to bloody up his hospital wall with the classic Red John smiley face. A few notes are scratched out on the psychological significance of this act being both indicative of his perceived guilt and role in the death of his family, and also his desire for self-annihilation. Additional notes from Sophie Miller also add to Dr. Bennet's previous scrawlings. This time cleaner writing adds that the action was his way of asserting that he had symbolically died with his wife and daughter.

The last notes from this point onwards were all signed by Dr. Sophie Miller, who seemingly became Jane's primary psychiatrist for the continuation of remaining four months of his stay.

* * *

I close the file at long last - my heart tachycardic. There's a horrible bitter taste like rotten flesh in my mouth. Hot acid, burning my belly, my esophagus - burning its way up to my brain, I'm sure. Not bile, I quickly realize - but the start of a triggered ulcer attack - something I haven't had in a good, long while.

It's then that I stuff the dreadful report back into its folder, and back into my briefcase - willing away the emotions, the understanding of his pain. The new found understanding of just how ill he had been, and just how alone in the world he feels is tearing me up.

My mind, obsessive as it can be, is going over and over Jane crying for his daughter ...arguing about her not being able to breathe in a "blanket."

Maybe it's because with those words...he demonstrated without question just how much his mind had fractured at that time.

I feel undeniable empathy plume outwards through my entire body. It's enough to make me want to race back to the living room, grab him, just hold him, hug the daylights out of him.

I shake the thought away - knowing this record was something I should have read ages ago, wondering too... how such precise and horrific knowledge of his past would have effected our own working relationship.

Would I have treated him with greater...delicacy from beginning? Should I have? And would his ramblings and teasings and general mischieviousness grated on me to the same degree if I had read all this before?

To read the file, to feel how perversely Red John's presence invaded Jane's life...unfurling over Jane's wife, his little girl...

Well, they had been **meals** for that bastard - pure, whole, healthy forms of sustenance for his evil. He craved their purity, he dined on it, and it fed him. Their dying pain fed him - and Jane's perpetual grief continues to fuel Red John now.

Red John, the red dragon. A cannibalistic red demon swallowing whole any being of purity and innocence.

And Jane?

Jane was like a little creature that escaped from a cobra. His family were the engulfed prey, swallowed in their completeness, their entirety - so that the last memory Jane would have of either would be putrescent and tormenting.

Red John had ensured as such, and for that - I am not going to stop until the beast is slain.

I know it with every fiber of my being.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title - Little Stars - Part 6**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Next up: OC: child victim/ Protective!Jane

**A/N: **I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more - totally caught up in the process of writing. But... I did NOT save routinely. Yes, you got it - I lost a good chunk of work all at once.

_*Kourion smashes her head on keyboard*_

Be smart guys: routinely save your work. That's all I'm going to say about that ;)

(Additionally: have I ever mentioned how aggravating fanfiction (dot) net formatting can be...? I really could blow a gasket right now. It's insanely annoying. You fix something, save your stuff, and then their program deletes whole spaces, messes around with line breaks and everything else. *argh!*)

* * *

I put away the report numbly, before padding to the washroom as softly as possible. I do not turn on the lights - not until I get inside and can place a towel alongside the open seem where the door doesn't quite meet the floor. Once I'm certain that it's well blocked, I flick on the light and start getting cleaned up.

I pull out all the toiletries I plan on using first - debating on whether or not a shower will wake Jane up. I know through unfortunate circumstance (by accidentally stumbling into his CBI 'lair' - the dust coated enclave he seemingly insists on calling home, now) - that even turning on a light while he is slumbering will often rouse him.

A staggering thought then: one that I can't push away.

And it's this:

I can't be at all certain that Jane _still has _his brownstone apartment. It was a wonderfully old-fashioned building that he had selected to make his home here in Sacramento. The condo had been nestled between two tree lined streets, a charming cobblestone pathway leading to an iron wrought key in system.

And while my own tastes would be far less detailed, far less old-fashioned - or, let's face it - less richly sophisticated - I _still _couldn't inhibit my open speculation on the one and only day I was able to drive him to the building, my words now lazily revolving around in my head: _"This is a beautiful place, Jane."_

He had shrugged at that - unfeeling, disconnected - his eyes flickering over the place, not really taking it in, his demeanor saying..._'I guess,'_ and nothing more.

I hadn't thought at the time about what it must be like to be so aesthetically constructed as a person. To be so aesthetically oriented towards beauty, yet so plagued by the oppressive weight of grief. A grief so mighty that every enjoyable experience is recast as something that HE can have, HE can feel, but which _they don't have, CAN'T have anymore and will never have again_.

His guilt over feeling beauty is often apparent. His natural draw towards beauty and finery - his precise and delicate tastes - often conflicting with his set up constructs: Red John FIRST.

Lately, too, things have been getting worse... with this disturbing trend rapidly escalating towards not only self-recrimination...but self-punishment. The behavior something not completely foreign, as Jane has often had bouts of sacrificial insanity. Times when he would go off, propelled by his need to find the truth, capture the bad guy - even if the truth could have very easily cost him his life. His priorities have often seemed...skewed. To the extreme.

And then his day-to-day fussiness - equally insane, in another sense. His insistence to have his tea JUST so, or else not at all. His finickiness at restaurants, the pushing around of vegetables on his place, his ordering the green beans in one little pile, and rolling the peas somewhere else. The behaviors...a little compulsive, a little too OCD at best.

And now, tonight - those alarming words - _"I'll clean it up. I promise." _

It's still making me feel...unnerved.

Because I can see it in his eyes sometimes...his guilt. Usually it strikes at the most inopportune moments, such as when recounting something amusing, something that **_should _**reduce his pain. Instead, what shortly follows is this flash of recognition - of remembrance - and then the start of an emotional storm on a previously calm day. His guilt is masterfully subjugated most of the time; in the beginning of my partnership with him I didn't make the connection between Jane's hypomanic intensity to latch onto the richness of experience... and his deeper attempts to still that beast of all emotions - regret.

I simply have rolled my eyes, or have gotten aggravated with his seemingly constant need to comment about _every little _nuanced sight or sound or taste. I just saw him as so obviously sensoral (which Jane is, without question - always needing to pick up every item, hold it, feel its weight - the tactile experience largely how he gathers information), but in a prissy, affected way.

Not unlike a snobbish boyfriend I had had for all of 7 weeks back in my early 20's. Neil - who had dragged me to the met opera when what I would have found so much more enjoyable would have been watching the Chicago Cubs and eating over-buttered popcorn. Not dining on wilted asparagus and thinly sliced almonds in some sort of sauce I still can't even pronounce properly.

Although Jane - for all his fancy ways - is still authentic in his appreciation. I've come to see that, know that. Sure, I sometimes have to remind myself that I'm not in an episode of _The Twilight Zone _- especially after the man rants about killings and vengeance for 10 minutes straight, only then to turn the discussion to the wondrous health benefits of hazelnut chocolate - or something equally jaw-droppingly unexpected.

Certainly...tactile-oriented is an understatement when it comes to describing him. I've never known anyone else so insistent - so truly _needing_ - to pick up and handle everything! It's often half the reason why I find myself scolding him in the first place -_ "don't touch that!"_ or_ "put that back!" _- when really, he's doing what he's best at: taking in the sensoral world, analyzing and synthesizing what is presented.

It's also just one of the ways in which we differ. Jane - so obviously hands-on, all warmth and wide-open smiles and grins, needing to play with everything - needing to own the experience and take it into himself.

And then there's me: distant in my recordings, logically trying to create a framework of data and facts. Or at least, that's my aim, although I'm not foolish enough to assume that I can bypass my past, or that I don't have prejudices of my own. But I purposefully hold back from investing too much emotion into a case.

Of course, it's not like I'm cautious for kicks. It's not as if I _can't_ connect - despite Jane's oft-times aggravating suggestions that I am shut down, or something.

* * *

I'm in the middle of my flossing routine - Listerine to the left, non-fluoridated strawberry toothpaste (_God help us all_) to my right when it hits me, when I find myself considering just how often I've found Jane holed up in his dusty little hovel (aka the CBI attic).

Oh... the place needs to be closed off, I'm certain - what with its blurry, sooted windows, and awful musk of lingering air. I've wanted to discuss the issue with him before now - as the attic air is littered with dust and pollutants. It's cold as ice up there, too, being segregated from the central heating. I can only imagine what it would feel like now, in winter - all harsh slants of light cutting through the room, illuminating the space in bleak ribbons of particle debris.

_'No WONDER he's sick! It's like he's TRYING to run himself into the ground!'_

Thinking back on it - I've found him there countless times. Or else, especially recently, I've found him coming in from the recreational center - hair all freshly washed and gently air-curled. As if he was really living at the CBI. Honest-to-goodness just making a go of it...

(And if anyone could pull it off, it'd be Jane).

It would explain why he now has his own locker - the funny print-out script labelling the door as if Jane is any other agent. I had laughed when passing by one day, wondering with equal parts confusion and amusement what he'd need a locker for... [It's not as it he didn't make good use of the break room fridge, freezer and cabinets - the place has slowly been taken over with his almost highbrow flair for such unpopular congregations as various mint jellies, curried citrus jams, and ritzy Norwegian crackers. Before, Agents had largely kept microwavable dinners or boxes of sugar cereal on hand.]

Even more amusing are the neat little labels on almost everything... in Jane's simple (almost child-like) cursive, reading **_"help yourself!"_**

In a different world, in a different life - I imagine Jane would have added a little smiley face. Not any longer. Instead, in order to communicate his enthusiasm and willingness to share his prized goodies, he has taken to exclaimation points and underlining everything in various fineliners.

To anyone but my team, it's probably seen as a neon-red warning sign of doom, that enthusiasm. Most people are only familiar with Jane's reputation for mischief and trickery. Unfortunately, very few have come to learn of his genuine need to share with others, his boundless generosity. So the labels offering a sharing of treats have probably been taken as a tacit warning instead.

* * *

I wash my hair quickly, hands and arms moving of their own volition - my mind a million miles away. Or further than that, even - an entirely different solar system.

And although I normally take comfort in the routine and rituals of showering, tonight I'm on auto-pilot. The water barely feels warm, and the shampoo barely smells like anything - certainly not coconut, certainly nothing so_ sweet _as that.

A deep unabating chill has taken up residence in my body - starting in my bones, it now radiates outwards.

Shivering, I reach forward and adjust the dial on the shower-head, then impatiently wait while the water streams out feeling just a little more heated. It's a good deal warmer after a few moments, thankfully, although the heat is failing to penetrate. The warmth of the spray is merely reddening my skin, causing my skin to feel welted in the wake of the fat, forceful jets - but I still feel cold inside. I still feel as if I need to marinate in warmth. Or have it infused into me by transfusion.

If it weren't so late, I'd probably make some coffee. I wouldn't even say no to a cup of decaf right now. Any warm beverage that could course in liquid channels through my veins and arteries, and heat the vascular network until my heart became warm again, well...that's what I want.

_'Maybe you're getting sick now...'_

Of course, the idea that I AM getting sick...is not something I am going to entertain.

I just can't let it happen. If I am getting rundown, I need to cut it off at the source - which is the whole point of monitoring your temperature, and taking appropriate action early on so that these sort of problems don't...worsen.

A concept seemingly foreign to Jane.

_'It's just one more thing you'll have to discuss with him tomorrow...'_

When I depart from my shower my skin immediately ripples into a tide of goosebumps. Feeling chilled so quickly is tempting me to hop back into the shower, and I have to give myself a good mental slap when I consider how foolish and comfort prone I'm being. I live in...California, for God's sake!

So the fact that I feel like I've swallowed ice - I'm distantly hoping - has more to do with worry than actual physiological...infection. Of course, I did sleep alongside Jane for over four hours, breathing in the air that had just passed from his bacterial ridden little lungs.

Irritated with myself for my stupidity, I riffle around in the pull out drawer near where I keep my strawberry toothpaste (Oh _Jane_) - and quickly locate some NyQuil, reading the instructions for good measure and taking a dose of the green syrup. Just to be on the safe side.

I then tread back to my room, slowly opening the door, careful not to let the door hit the frame. My alarm is already set, but I go ahead and set the secondary alarm on my cell phone just to be on the safe side. In my fatigue, I could - conceivably - sleep through an alarm. And given that Jane's already out of commission, well...

Tomorrow must go flawlessly. No glitches, no screw ups. Not even the mildest of screw ups.

Tomorrow, I will be just another hard working agent, invisible...

* * *

It's not even the alarm that gets me up, finally - but the automated coffee percolator kicking out hazelnut-cream light roast coffee.

I always prep the coffee the night before: setting up a modest 4 cup amount - knowing that anything less than this tends to leave me woefully undercaffeinated (in which case I remain in my semi-hibernated bear-like state until mid afternoon.)

I can smell it from my bed now, notes of chocolate and nuts making me smile. The aroma is so wondrously fragrant that I just inhale heavily for a few moments, dispelling the idea that I'll have to actually **_get up _**sometime soon.

I've been like this since childhood, truly. Just not a morning person. I usually wake up feeling grumpy and even more impatient than typical, motivation and discipline being traits that don't really kick in for me most days until noon. Never mind the fact that I'm a perpetual meal skipper. And with an ulcer, and reactive hypoglycemia - excessive coffee first thing in the morning isn't exceptionally wise...but by watching movies last night (as charming as such movies were), I'm not feeling very well rested when I finally patter into my kitchen at slightly 20 after 6 - a mere five hours of actual sleep time under my belt.

I probably should try to have a little something before I totally aggravate my ulcer.

* * *

Opening the fridge I take a curious look around. I'm not one of those well stocked people. I eat far too much take out. My produce gets used on a very random time frame. Most vegetables I buy with honest intentions of eating...instead end up wilting, or rotting, before I remember I even HAVE them. The ulcer's made me picky, of course. Picky and pained, my stomach often swelling and hurting for no discernible reason. Ulcer attacks are nothing if not random - because some days, I feel fine. Other days - nauseous, the burning heat not unlike acidic coal flush against skin. It's been a long standing problem, and a huge reason for why I so frequently skip meals. All to Jane's displeasure, I think, because I can recall countless times when he's stopped on the way to or from a crime scene only to get me fresh berries from a road side stand.

Or moments in dingy cafes, small local eateries, where I have poked and prodded at pancakes or cheese toast, while Rigsby inhales everything edible on his plate - including that little sprig of parsley that they tend to lay alongside the paltry curl of orange for decoration, I thought - and Jane has eyed me questioningly. The last time he ordered chicken pot pie and red velvet cake - offering me little samples from his own spoon, his own fork - much to my mixed emotional state: the offer, sweet, thoughtful - but the suggestion that I need to be fed or something just a little embarrassing.

Especially in front of the others.

Not like I've ever taken a bite, either, but he keeps right at it... even asking the waitress for a second plate, sometimes. The whole, persistent, _"try this, Lisbon. It's comfort food. Settles your stomach" _routine now so old hat that Cho keeps right on nibbling his hashbrowns when he starts up, and Van Pelt doesn't even smile at the exchange anymore. In fact, if he DIDN'T do it...I think that's when I'd start hearing comments.

Thinking of this, and how my stomach - _because Jane is, of course, right again _- WILL hurt by noon if I skip breakfast, I finally manage to locate something that's possibly half way bearable: a box of Quaker oatmeal. In little packets. It's not what Jane would fancy, of course - his version of oatmeal undoubtedly being only steel cut oats, cashew and walnut pieces, brown sugar, and blueberries topping of the entire ensemble.

But in a pinch, it'll do.

I pour two packets of peaches and cream into a red and orange dish, top with the requisite hot water (as per instructions on the side of the box) and swirl around absent-mindedly until everything looks fairly well cooked. I leave the box out on the counter, too - along with a sticky note that informs Jane that he can either have boring old oatmeal or order in some food. I leave $30 by the microwave, with the box, and a whole stack of take out menus knowing that there's got to be something amongst the mix of different cuisines that will appeal to his fussy taste.

* * *

When I get to work, I get right into checking my business email, inbox and file reports. Cho shuffles into work a few moments later, tossing his shoulder bag off to the side, his overall look never changing: short sleeved white shirt, black slacks, face its typical portrait of calm and aloof.

"How's Jane?," he asks easily, pulling out some reams of paper - transferring file notes to a canary pad for quick reference. Cho's not a laptop guy. Rigsby and Van Pelt will take theirs on any excursion - but Cho likes to keep it old-school. In some peripheral ways, he shares certain tendencies with Jane. It's probably why they get along so well in the field.

"Better," I nod, resolutely, "he was pretty feverish yesterday. But he seems much better. He'll probably be back tomorrow -," a wide yawn takes me by surprise.

"Hmm. Tired?," Cho asks in his brief, terse manner.

"Just a tad. It's a good thing I went to bed when I did. Jane wanted to stay up watching Cary Grant movies," and a slow, indulgent smile flutters across my face before I can squash it back down into submission.

"What did you watch?," - a second later.

I pick up my coffee tumbler, drain it of its last few precious drops of caffeine.

"What makes you think I watched anything?"

Cho doesn't smile, doesn't smirk. Just re-asks his question.

"_Arsenic and Old Lace_," I mutter at last, feeling some disturbingly strong need to laugh course through me again.

Cho seems to find this completely expected, completely normal.

"Good movie. Funny," he nods in agreement, before taking a bite of what looks like an apple-cinnamon strudel. I suddenly want a bear claw, feeling undeniably unsatisfied from the quick cook oats. Whoever said that eating breakfast cut down on appetite obviously was one bowl short of a box of apple jacks. Every single time I have "the most important meal of the day" I crave sugar. Like clockwork, totally predictable.

_'When will I learn my lesson?'_

I'm scouring around for the last of the closed-cased donuts when I finally eye the pink box. I select a plastic wrapped donut - chocolate. It's not too bad. A little stale. But not atrociously dried out or anything.

Cho gives me a look, but says nothing as I make my way to the coffee makers, still not quite up to speed.

* * *

Hightower locates me just as I'm pouring the last of the freshly ground mix into the Braun, her face all business-expectation.

"And how's Patrick?," she asks tidily, her manner so to the point and efficient, that I can't help but wonder what sort of response I'd get if I said anything along the lines of "he's worse."

"I think he'll be back tomorrow. So he's...doing better," I nod in affirmation, not feeling quite Jane-bold enough to pull off anything that isn't the full truth.

"Good. AG has given me this," and she passes along a new file - a thick file, "to give to you."

I glance at the wad of papers suspiciously, training my face back into its typical _'yes ma'am, of course ma'am' _setting.

"Why so thick? Is it a cold case? Something being re-opened?"

"Yes and no," Hightower says, takes a breath, "new crime. Old history."

I flip through the file quickly, setting my coffee tumbler off to the side, bracing the weight of the files against my belly. Holding the papers awkwardly against my body while I walk to the breakroom table, I sit down before opening the file completely. Hightower comes closer, but doesn't follow suit - prefering to stand.

A photo comes to the surface quickly, and I pick it up, lay it out on the malamite counter.

It's a colour shot this time, and taken in what seems to be the basement of house. The walls are unfinished - I can see dry wall and electrical tape around the basement windows. Everything is dismally dark.

For an insane moment, I can feel the chill of the room, the stagnant air, the stench of death.

I can also make out the small, eloquent script - bright and hot - left on the wall. The colour is electric. A vibrant colour, the colour of Malibu Barbie's house, or something equally fantastical and little girl-ish.

Paint?

The writing is compact, very small, and I can tell that the photo has been taken from quite close up - additional photos provided from the CSI team for scale. I can see what looks like part of a Playmobile doll house poking up by the lettering. I recognize the style of the toy - my brother Gabriel had a rather extensive collection of Playmobile knights and pirates. This one looks like...a castle.

Feminine, again.

Suddenly the paint, the colour, the words - is scaring me as much as anything from a Red John crime scene.

Sickly, I read over the eloquent scripting once more, the almost...calligraphic writing on the wall:

_"you try to find words for something so lost,  
for those long childhood afternoons you knew  
that vanished so completely - __and why?"_

I read the quotation softly, but aloud - not familiar with the passage but considering it something Jane might know. When and where he's studied half the stuff he's studied, I'll never know. He's nothing but not gifted, and not just in his trade, his so-called profession. He can play chess as skillfully as he can quote entire passages of Goethe.

"Who are the victims?," and I clear my throat quickly.

"Russell Castleton, and his wife Patricia. Mr. Castleton was killed in a very...sadistic fashion. Drugged, then blood-let. The medical examiner thinks that Mr. Castleton would have been awake during most of the process. Aware that he dying. Was being...murdered."

Hightower looks...tense.

It's not a good look for her. On her.

"But inhibited from moving, from screaming?," I supply, already knowing the answer in my heart.

"Yes," Hightower confirms. "Mrs. Castleton was simply overdosed. No...bloodletting. The drugs were nothing more than sleeping pills - a high concentration. In her case, she went to bed, but she never woke up. So there was no obvious...suffering. Not in her case, anyway."

I try to process the information. Mentally sort through the information, rapidly fashion a basic profile in my mind.

"The killer mentions_..."long childhood afternoons"..._and I can see kid toys in these shots. Did the Castletons have any small children?"

Hightower looks disturbed now. She's a mother herself.

"Little girl," she confirms, "Dorothea Isis Castleton. Just turned seven. She went by Thea."

She passes me a photo, and my heart plummets to the floor. The child - her look - is staggeringly familiar. Blond ringlets, the age, the overall...sense of deja vu profound. Ripping into me like a pit bull - not letting go.

Thea Castleton smiles at me broadly, toothless grin hampered by an unmistakable self-conciousness as she takes in a candlelit cake. She looks like an overdressed sprite - delicate features hampered by an extremely frou-frou dress, all pink ruffles and extreme femininity that - distantly, absurdly - I note would have made me gag, as a kid. The tomboy in me would have thrown a temper tantrum if merely touched by pink cloth. In this shot the child looks every bit the classic daddy's girl. Something I...decidely...was not.

She also could be Charlotte Jane's double. A doppelganger.

I quickly add up the candles, glance at the reports, calculate that the photo is less than two months old.

Still unnerved by the similarities, I think of something - anything - to say. I can tell my superior is gauging my reaction.

"She doesn't look...," I stop, not knowing how to proceed. "She's so fair," I say at last. "Was she...?"

The Castletons were both dark - with features distinctive and very unlike that of their little girl.

"Dorothea was adopted."

I can't help wonder if Jane's daughter would have smiled like this - the timid look, the shyness. Or if she would have smiled boldly - confidently - like Jane. I can't help feeling some intuitive spark - just a momentary spark of something, something dark - fizzle in my brain as I study the candid shot, and note how her hands come to clasp in such a nervous hold.

"This is the most recent shot?"

Hightower nods. "It's the circulating photo. At this point, we are assuming she's still alive. We are almost certain she's still alive."

"How long has she been missing?," I say more to myself, numbly. "And why isn't this case missing persons?"

I know better than to get my hopes up. And frankly - and I know it sounds selfish - but I don't want this case. I don't want JANE on this case. In the three years he's worked with us, we've never had a case where a young child was a potential murder victim. We've had cases dealing with children, sure - but nothing that would hit so close to home as this.

"The AG requested your team, Agent," and then holds up her hands in a supplicant gesture. "I'm aware that you've recently read Patrick's file."

I look up sharply.

"Yes. I have," and I can't help the edge that creeps into my voice. "For you to ask... I take it...you're asking me because you can see it too..."

I don't need to itemize the similarities, or expound on what I mean. It's obvious from the photos alone - and anyone who had even briefly looked through Jane's file would be able to note the similarities between Dorothea Castleton and Charlotte Jane.

"It's not a case I would have assigned to you, to_ him_. AG's insistence. Mrs. Castleton is a friend of a relative. You know how these things go."

Hightower looks as if she's nipped into a lemon.

"Do you think Patrick will be able to keep a cool head if he's on this?," she asks finally.

One thing I know with certainty is that Jane will do everything in his power to find this little girl.

And I know that we have a better chance of solving this with him, than without him. But as far as keeping a cool head...? How can I answer that question truthfully - to the best of my ability - without reducing this child's chance of being found alive?

"Is this a serial?," I attempt - now torn between needing Jane on this case, and wishing that there was ANY other person with his talents, his skill - that I could call on for once.

"Four families - over a four year period. The killings are similar. The husband, the wife... killed in an identical format: the husband blood-let, the wife provided a fatal overdose. The child - or children - abducted."

I ready myself to pose the next question.

"And the children? Were they found?"

Hightower sighs, stares at the table, stares at the photo before briefly catching my eyes.

Her eyes look hard. Steely.

"First case - two girls. Emily and Briony. Second case - a little boy. Elliot. Third case - a girl again. Lauren. And now Thea. All between the ages of 5 and 9."

"And the children?," I stress again, noticing the hesitancy, knowing it can't mean anything good.

"Killed. Like the mother. Overdose. But not right away. Their bodies were found in places that neighbours...or family members...had said the kids liked to visit. Emily and Briony were twins - 6 years old. They liked to go to Chuck-e-Cheese. They were found in a stolen sedan near the back doors to one of the establishments, curled up in new sleeping bags. The first responding officer thought they were sleeping, they looked so peaceful."

"They were all found after a month? We have a month for sure?"

"They were all found after four to six weeks. No signs of assult, no bruising. All well fed. All found near public places they liked to play at...or visit. Elliot Drummand wanted to be a palentologist when he grew up. He was found in another stolen car outside of the Natural Science Museum. None of the bodies were hidden in out of the way locations. Obviously, the killer wanted them found."

A month. A month of time - and with Jane's help - could it be enough?

Can we find this little girl alive?

"He...he seemed to take good care of them," Hightower adds, looking troubled.

I know there's something else.

_'the little girl...her hands...'_

_'..she looked nervous...'_

_'**"I'll clean it up. I promise" **_

_**Jane. **_

_**Jane's fear.**_

_'Dorothea...that self-conscious little grin...'_

_"I'll clean it up." Where have I heard words like that before?"_

The poem smashes against my eyes again and again.

___you try to find words for something so lost_,  
for those long childhood afternoons you knew  
that vanished so completely 

_"...Jane looked scared. You know somethings not right with him. You've had a hunch for awhile now..."_

_and **why?**_

The words suddenly seem... accusatory.

"Were these kids abused?," I ask at last. I stare down with unfettered sadness at the photo of little Dorothea Castleton.

"There's...forensic evidence to suggest long term abuse. Of a sexual nature. But nothing suggests that our killer is the perpetrator of the abuse," and Hightower stresses the last part of her sentence so I understand without a doubt what sort of serial we're dealing with here.

"The children...their deaths...," I trail off, not meaning to speak aloud, suddenly feeling like crying, "these were MERCY killings."

Hightower nods gruffly, "the way it has shaped up in the previous cases: Dad hurt the child, and Mom either didn't know about the abuse, or was in denial about it - that's what the profile suggests. It explains why the husbands are killed so slowly...with awareness of the fact that they are going to die. They are being punished. And they are silenced. Not allowed to cry out or move - the drugs making it impossible."

___you try to find words for something so lost..._

If the killer is keeping to his pattern - and there's nothing to suggest he's about to change his routine - she's alive. Right now.

_for something so lost..._

"You know Patrick better than anyone, Lisbon. Do you think this case could cause him to go off the rails?"

I close my eyes, hating the position I'm in. Jane's file warned in no uncertain terms about the risks involved with cases such as these. He's already grieving for his child. He already shows many symptoms of PTSD.

And here's a case involving multiple children - abused, probably by their father, then abducted and killed. And the current victim is a shoe-in for his own late daughter.

You don't have to be a shrink to know what NOT finding this child in time could do to him.

Hightower is watching me, waiting for my response - not unkindly.

I close my eyes again, clench and then unclench my jaw - and hate myself for what I'm going to say, what I'm about to do.

"I'll discuss this with Jane tonight. If anyone can find this child, it's him."

* * *

**A/N part deux: **yes...this story is taking on a life of its own. And - sorry! - no real Jane interaction this chapter, I know. But good news! There's lots of Jane interaction NEXT chapter, and won't it be sweeter, then? You know what they say - absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that jazz. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Title - Little Stars - Part 7**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Next up: OC: child victim/ Protective!Jane

**A/N: **reviews make me super-happy! So does Blake Neely's delicious soundtrack. I am all _blah-ed _out that they do not have _The Mentalist _original score available in Canada. That's...well *no words!*

In the meantime, I will have to get my fix through youtube alone.

* * *

On any given day, I look forward to getting home.

In my defense, I usually linger around the office for an hour or two past the end of a typical shift.

But _tonight..._

Tonight I'm not looking forward to what lays ahead, what I have to do.

What I've been, essentially, ordered to do.

And now - passing the large Blockbuster two streets over from my apartment...well. It does nothing to assuage my guilt, nothing to stop that sickly sense that what I'm about to do is not only _wrong_...

But that I am somehow betraying Jane, or letting him down as a friend.

Because if I were a real friend, a **_true_** friend - I would tell Hightower that the case will be too problematic for Jane. I would say - end of story - "no deal." I would tell her that I'm not putting a member of my team through such an ordeal. That this sort of strain could do lasting damage.

Most importantly, if I were a real friend...I wouldn't have hesitated. My response would have been fast. Immediate, even.

I would have told her to give it to any other team.

If I were a real friend, my biggest concern right now would have been in considering whether or not I would surprise Jane by selecting _Bringing Up Baby_ as my film choice, rather than the action film that had my original focus.

If I were a real friend, I'd be getting two king sized chocolate bars - Skor, and Aero - just for kicks; relieved that he was healthier, no longer chalky white, no longer feverish. And we'd lounge around on my couch, eat too much sugar, and watch old fashioned movies.

Instead, I'm sitting in my car, the ignition off, files in hand, feeling like I'm caught in the worst catch-22 of my adult life.

* * *

The first thing I notice when I get inside the building is that my apartment smells like lemongrass. It smells like lemongrass from the _hall._

That says something.

And I can also hear some sort of electro theme song playing at an all-too high volume.

Pausing for a second, I recognize the music with a sort of bittersweetness that always seems to trail me when I'm in Jane's presence, before I gently lock the entry door, and throw my purse in the general direction of the kitchen entrance. I don't really care where it lands.

"_Jane?," _I call out when the music dies down and the start of a Toys-R-Us commercial cuts in. Entering the living room, I do a double take... as Jane is still decked out in sweats (his three piece suit hangs over the loveseat, apparently forgotten).

"Hey Lisbon!," he chirrips sweetly, his cheeks a bright _ho-ho-ho _red. The type of red that clings to you after being bundled up in bed all day long, sleeping and drinking nothing but..._gallons and gallons of hot tea_... by the look of things.

Why he needed _four tea cups _is beyond me. But there they are - the four blue cups, with matching saucers, all cluttering up the coffee table.

And when he ran out of tea cups (because, truly, I only _had_ four!) he made his way onto my coffee mugs. My old chipped Garfield mug sits off to the side, full with something dark.

"Is that coke?," I sputter, for a second totally lost. Certainly _Patrick Jane _doesn't drink **coke**. The thought is foreign. Strange.

"My blood sugar was low. And you don't have any honey or sugar cubes...," he trails off, his eyes still glued to the set.

"At least you're well hydrated," I mutter, before slouching down on the loveseat, letting my eyes flitter over to the TV as well, trying to determine what has so hooked Jane that the volume needs to be ratched up top notch.

"Space Channel is showing_ The X-Files _from the beginning. They started yesterday, I guess. I can't believe that I've never watched this show before! I just watched one where this giant fluke man - _they call him flukie _- goes through the sewer system and-"

He stops talking abruptly, the animated grin slipping from his face.

"What's wrong?"

Jane rubs his hands together. But smiles at me affectionately.

"Don't tell me you're_ that _upset about missing Flukie! No worries, my dear... they are having a marathon. It's on for another 6 hours tonight!"

I smile - despite myself, despite my anxiety. "Yeeeah. I don't think so. But thanks."

He shrugs...like _'what else can I do?'_

"How are you feeling? Did you take your temperature today?"

"Back to normal. 100.5 about an hour ago," and he _shussshs _me quickly as the show comes back on, hitting the mute button with his finger excitedly. The show streams back to life, all loud music and 90's keyboard notes wailing in tinnily over my poorman's stereo. I sigh, before taking up a seat next to him on the couch.

"100.5 is still _high_, Jane. Certainly not normal," I say softly, while he makes a _"meh"_ sound (his _whatever! _sound) - as if I'm being ridiculous. He then _shsssh!'s_ me again - just as I am about to ask another question, mumbling something about how_ "Scully's speaking, woman! SCULLY!"_ and how I _"don't have TiVO."_

Evidently, he wants me to shut up.

Knowing I'm not going to get anywhere with him right now, I amble back to the kitchen. Order take-out he most definitely did - and I smirk, knowing that Quaker oats would have appealed to him about as much as regular milk chocolate.

My eyes graze over the containers, and I can see he was rather...moderate with the purchases. I can only see white rice, some tofu and eggplant, and a small container of what appears to be shrimp and vegetable soup. I immediately locate the scent of the lemongrass wafting from the soup. At least lemongrass is good for people getting over colds.

"You want any more of this, Jane? You didn't have much!," I call from the kitchen, noting that - indeed - not very much of the food has actually been consumed.

He still must not have his appetite back.

"No thank you!," he hollers back from his position on the sofa a second later, his voice still sounding hoarse. "I saved you half of everything, though. I tried to keep it warm!"

Of COURSE he saved me half. More like three quarters, truly, but I'm not going to bug him about that right now. He'll eat when he's hungry and I smile, taking in the styrofoam containers, and the neat way he's arranged everything for me - including putting a cloth over the boxes to keep the entrees hot.

* * *

When I return to the couch I am holding a bowl of oriental food in one hand, and a freezie in the other. The freezie is this god-awful windex-blue colour, although it's supposed to be blue raspberry or something. But... it's cold, and sweet, and Jane's voice still sounds raw. So it'll do the trick, ungodly amounts of food-dye or not.

"Thank you for the food. I'll pay you back," he says with a small smile, before catching sight of the electric blue ice-pop.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jane. You are the most generous person I know. This is the least I can do," and I mock chuck the freezie at his head for his outrageous statement that he'd have to pay me back. Seriously!

He takes the ice-pop gingerly, while I needlessly add, _"Here. For your throat."_

"Nothing like anti-freeze to make me feel, better, eh?"

I try to smile at his smirk, but it probably doesn't come out right. I feel awkward... my heart not in this mock-eating... this pecking at szechuan noodles and mung beans and grilled tofu, this taking microscopic sips of lemongrass soup.

I put down my Buddha bowl after a moment. I don't have anything resembling an appetite right now, either, apparently.

And Jane must sense it too, because he looks up then - just as Fox Mulder pops back on the screen. For all his interest in the show, he turns off the volume now, his attention now resting solely with me and my - **_damn it _**- _'transparency'_. I can't cover up anger or sadness or anxiety no matter how hard I try, it seems. Not from Jane, anyway.

Not Jane...who can always read me as if I am one of those childish _Choose Your Own Adventure!_ books.

"What's wrong?," Jane asks, finally.

The lingering taste of lemongrass on my tongue is suddenly all too strong, all too **much. **Acrid.

_'What did Jane say before about lemony things? Lemony...anger? Righteous anger?'_

My mind can't dredge up his exact words right now, and I find myself pushing a piece of tofu around and around in my bowl. Skewering it with one of my chop sticks until the food is raggedy and torn.

"You...just...watch your show." I brush my hands on my pants then, needing to move, needing to stretch.

Jane continues to study me, and when I look over at him I see that his lips are now highlighted by the purple-blue dye. Big mistake on my part - because now he looks all the_ more _juvenile... innocent with a blue-raspberry stained tongue. Suddenly...an unwanted, distracting image of my brother Tommy - _sticking his tongue out at me when we were kids_ - pushes itself to the fore of my consciousness.

Nor does it help that Janes' sweat curled bangs now fall down over his forehead - his fever dying out, but not exactly gone. And his cheeks are apple-red. All of that together...well...for a split second all I can see is a little boy.

_Him_...more precisely...as a little boy.

Obviously...he was someone who was never protected. Not properly.

His mind games and tricks a cover up for his deeper pain.

_Oh God._

It's so obvious.

_Why couldn't I see how obvious this all was, before?_

"Lisbon...what is it? What's wrong?," Jane reiterates, pulling the plastic freezie out of his mouth, his throat still sounding gruff and hoarse.

And damn it. He sounds...tense now, too. And that's MY fault.

It's an odd, uncomfortable sound to take in, to hear. Odd in the same way as witnessing a red foreboding sky, or taking in a headless doll. It doesn't **_fit._** It's not **_right. _**

Not when skies should be blue and dolls should have heads...

Not when Jane_, the imp! -_ should seem smooth, at ease. Never sketchy, or antsy, or **_anxious_**.

"Nothing that can't wait until later, okay? Finish your show," and I pat his knee in a dull, _unthinking_ way - the action rote, an auto-pilot gesture, I know - my own thoughts turbulent and scattered and distant.

* * *

I'm pouring the last of the tepid soup down the drain when Jane approaches - so silently that I startle, not hearing him at first. A rushing sound streams through my ears, the pounding of my pulse - in my head, my brain - taking a second to die down before sound normalizes again and my heart beats at a slightly less frenetic pace.

"You're upset. A-," he starts, then stops abruptly - obviously having been about to say something else. "What's the matter?"

"You've asked that three times now."

His forehead creases.

"Well...you never answered the first few times. How many times SHOULD I ask it?"

I pick up one of the styrofoam containers.

"You want this? Cause rice doesn't really keep. It'll be hard like a rock by morning. I'm thinking we should chuck it."

"**_Lisbon_**..."

I put the styrofoam containers into a nearby plastic bag, a yellow smiley face proclaiming THANK YOU! in bloated cartoon letters. I'm not familiar with the eatery...

"Lisbon, please. Did I-?," he tries one last time, while I secure everything with a loose knot, and stick it all in the fridge. He knows where to find it if he wants to nibble on something later.

"No Jane, you didn't do ANYTHING wrong."

When he smiles broadly, I amend my statement, give him a passing _"don't think you can fool me, buster!"_ look.

"At least not recently... No. It's...I don't know. _Everything_, maybe. Cases. Duties? Big evil and little evil scenarios? ," I glower at my countertops, and wipe the fake granite with a cleansing cloth from the sink.

"You're anxious. Why don't you start from the beginning?," he tries once more, and I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel the heat from his gaze travel down my back, down my spine. It tingles.

"Yeah right. The _beginning_," I mutter, wanting to dispell some stress.

I really should just call Hightower and tell her that this whole case in better in the hands of another team.

It's really what I SHOULD do.

And yet...

"I'm going to clean up. And is that Agent SCULLY I hear?," and I give him a small, terse smile. The best I can manage right now, all truth be told.

He reaches for my hand, stills me from cleaning.

"Please, Lisbon. Please...just tell me what's wrong."

_'He's only asked four or five times now...' _

I really shouldn't leave the man hanging.

Not now...not when he looks so flustered and out of sorts - wearing his dress socks, my ex-boyfriends excessively baggy t-shirt, his hair all mishmashed and sticking up like it tends to do after he falls asleep on the couch at work. Before he catches his reflection in a pane of glass or a mirror.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking, and his hands come up to his head, speedily having figured out the reason behind my amusement.

His hands now briskly pat his hair down into something less wild, and I walk over to the dining room table, take a seat.

Jane follows not a second later and sits down opposite to me, his fingers coming to rest in an odd tented pose, his fingertips barely touching.

For some reason I'm reminded of little Thea Castleton and her birthday photo...

_'...the anxious clutching of hands, her posture rigid and aware...'_

Bending down to my briefcase, I extract the two files. Jane's file... and the file on Dorothea Castleton, and her abduction.

I lay them both out on the table, side by side, while Jane's eyes dart over both folders. I can see recognition flood his features as he reads his file title, upside down - catches his own name.

He closes his eyes and doesn't speak.

A moment later, I do instead.

"I...I never read your file. Not in depth. It was my...responsibility, and I didn't_ fulfill _that responsibility. Do you understand?"

He looks up abruptly.

"Not for three years...," I add.

"Why did you read it now?" His voice cracks on _you._

"Hightower asked me to," I say bluntly, to the point. "She wanted to know what I thought - what I think... about some recent...developments."

Jane's hands fall apart at that, and I see him softly start tapping on the table, seemingly unaware.

"What **do **you think, then?," and he gestures to his file, "I mean - you've read it now. What do you think? Do **_YOU_** think I'm going to lose it? Is that what this is about? Is this some sort of...intervention?"

I bite my lip, concentrate - and try to discern the string of emotions that underscore the words.

Not accusatory. Not angry. But something hot and fierce...and...

**_Defensive._**

"Have **_you_** read it?," I query, pointing to his file.

He catches my line of sight then and looks away, suddenly, as if ashamed.

His voice is scarcely louder than a whisper.

"I don't HAVE to read it, Lisbon. I _lived_ it. Why would I have to _read it_?"

_'take her out. take her out of the blanket! she'll suffocate! take her out of the blanket!'_

_That's what he said._

_That's what he begged._

**I gulp.**

"Because there are recommendations in here - recommendations from people that have a hell of a lot more education than I do, Jane. Who know so much more than I do, especially about psychology and stress...and coping. Your file says that you could have PTSD. Very likely _do_. Did you know that?"

Jane is tipping his chair back now, as if trying to get away.

Antsy.

Upset.

"None of them**_ knew _**me, Lisbon. Not really. Not like **you know me**," and his eyes are trained on a patch of table. A knot in the wood. A swirl.

I can tell he's trying to get lost in that swirl.

"Jane," I try cautiously, as if I'm poking around in a rattlesnake den, stirring something up that shouldn't be stirred up. "I had no idea until last NIGHT that you had been...suicidal. That you...attempted suicide. So _obviously_ there is a lot about you that I don't know at all..."

He seems hurt by my words, his face taking on a look of...

_'...betrayal?'_

Arms cross swiftly. Followed by deep breaths. Followed by an opening of a mouth, a closing...

_Opening..._

"I'm _not_ suicidal."

I won't let him deflect endlessly. That's his usual game.

And we'll never get anywhere at that rate.

"Maybe not now. But you were."

"I _was_. Was being...**past-tense**. 'Was' being _then, _Lisbon. I promise you...I_...**promise**_. I'm not going to hurt myself again."

I see his fingers curl inwards, hold a fist, release.

Tense.

Release.

"I want you to read this, Jane," and I push Dorothea Castleton's file towards him.

Jane's eyes are shut, and he pushes against the file when he feels it enter his space - as if not wanting to even touch the paper.

As if he is terrified to open his eyes and **_see._**

"No! I don't need to read my file, Lisbon! I...d-don't want to see it! I don't need to see those..._photos _and-"

He's starting to sound insistent now, and I can't help but note the shrillness that's edging into his voice.

The start of something resembling panic.

"This isn't your file, Jane."

And his eyes snap open at that, fall down to the tan folder, flick over the courier font and the typed out name.

'_Castleton'_, he mouths, reading the file upside down.

He opens the file then, pulls out the off-white papers, picks up the photos and lays everything down in a neat row.

And I catch the moment - the precise moment - when he stops reading and he just...stares; the papers are lost and forgotten as he takes in the candid photographs.

One in particular - of a small girl in a pink frilly party dress.

He picks it up, eyeing it with a fierce intensity - a certain _protectiveness - _as his hands come up and almost touch the photo.

But not quite.

Not _quite_.

"Who is she?," and I hear pain, badly concealed.

The fact that this isn't his child is - in some ways - probably throwing him further off kilter.

He can't willfully desensitize any longer. Not when he doesn't know what's coming.

He can't push his emotions down and under and cover them up with a silly smile and his perfected... genial charm.

Not with images this new and unexpected.

Because his daughter has become a ghost now...distant and ephemeral.

But this is a new child. A brand new face.

"Her name is Dorothea Castleton. She's...missing."

I see him bite his lip; a thousand questions storming his mind, crashing against the gate of awareness...

_...Crossing the moat..._

So many questions. And only a few, hand picked, will ever be vocalized.

I'm sure of it.

"Is she _dead?," _and I can see the tug-of-war of emotions swarm over his face, the anger, the sadness, the sting of unmistakable paternal instinct re-enter his being.

In fact, he probably never lost his fathering instinct, just as I've never truly been able to discard the shawl of responsibility that was assigned to me as a kid. To protect anyone younge, smaller, more vulnerable.

It...lingers with you...that responsibility.

That sense of... duty.

Patrick Jane may be many things, to many people. But he was - obviously - a very loving father. And he obviously loved _being_ a father.

It was probably the only role he ever took seriously.

"Not yet," I say at last. "The little girl is most likely still alive. For now. Our profile...buys her a few weeks. Indicates that she probably has about three and a half weeks, actually."

Jane presses his fingertips against his eyes, looking sick.

"For you to know that...to _say_ that...there must be some pattern. There must be some...history."

"Yes," I confirm, not wanting to say anything else. Just needing to give him a few bare moments to process what I've given him thus far. It's only...fair?

...fair is so inadequate a word right now.

Nothing about Jane's life is fair.

Nothing about what has happened, and is happening, to this little girl...is fair.

He pulls his hands away now, and this time - he does pick up the photo. Holds it close. Cautiously, tenderly...as if the photo itself is precious, and not just a scrap of thick paper, plasticized, meaningless in and of itself.

"Before..._before he_...," Jane stops talking. Puts the photo back on the table. "Will he hurt her...before..._before..._?"

He doesn't need to expound upon what _before_ means. Or_ hurt_, either. I know what he's asking.

My stomach feels as if it's bleeding.

"He...he won't _touch_ her. He...," I try to catch his eyes, but he's avoiding my gaze.

Jane swallows quickly, as if battling nausea, as if pushing down bile. The sound resonates - ugly and all too-real in such silent space. I don't want reality, and certainly not Jane's reality.

I want rum and coke. But I know that's not going to help anything.

The alcohol never does...and I push off that...craving.

_Away, away._

"He doesn't touch them, Jane."

"HE doesn't, but '_Daddy' _does...or _**did**_...," Jane trails off, his breathing catching in his throat, his voice sounding hollow.

I know he's figured it out. Figured it out with that extreme rapidity he's so famous for...

"Yes. In every case so far...yes. There is a...consistent string of...sexual abuse with the others. It's the reason - most likely - why they are taken in the first place. And possibly, the reason why they're killed, later."

When Jane opens his eyes again, I can see that they have taken on a look of pure, unadulterated rage. The lines along his jaw are slack, his face is slack...

"He doesn't think...they can be...mended. He thinks they are...broken. For good. He truly believes that they can never be fixed. He thinks this is something that they can never get over. Not ever."

"Jane-"

"The killer...that's what he _thinks_. He thinks this is...a type of euthanasia."

His eyes scare me.

"Possibly. That's one of the theories."

"They must have been hurt...badly. Really badly. Before. For him to tell. He can _sense_ it on them, Lisbon. It must have been strong."

And if Dorothea Castleton's father was in this room right now, I'm dead sure that he'd be sprawled out on my floor, bleeding from multiple sources.

"That's **why**, Lisbon. Whoever took this little girl is not sadistic," and his eyes bore deeply into mine - looking black and murderous.

Jane might not be able to punch for anything, but I'd bet my life on it: Mr. Castleton would not be sitting primly at any table. He'd be down on the ground.

* * *

I wait until Jane's eyes fall back to the table...

_(falling stars, the light going out, falling...)_

_(what are you thinking, Jane?)_

...and only when that horrible, scary gaze is trained on my furniture, and not on me, do I speak again.

"That's right. He...the person who took Thea...he may see himself as her...protector."

Jane breathes out harshly, "Yeah."

Just the one word, blotting out the rest of my thoughts.

_Yeah._

How quickly inflection is sought and used... when a subject so heinous as childhood abuse is the primary topic.

"How many others?," he tries again, not a beat later.

"Four children - before Thea. All primary elementary age. Over a four year period."

"Thea," Jane mutters under his breath, testing the word out, testing the name. "_Thea_...she looks like a Thea."

"Hightower wants my opinion by tomorrow. She seems to think...if you can handle this, we have a chance of bringing her home. She wants to know what my decision is. I didn't want to make a decision without talking to you first."

"She looks so much like-," and I see him swallow again, his chest rising and falling a little more quickly.

"I know."

I feel awful.

I feel...absolutely wretched.

"How old is she?," and his eyes never leave Dorothea's gaze. He's reading her, compiling a mental portrait. I bet - right now - from the one photo alone...that Jane has already determined what her favorite show is, what half the names of her dolls are and what her favorite ice-cream flavour would be. I can tell by the intensity of his look that he has already begun to categorize and memorize and study.

_Learn_.

"She turned seven...about two months ago."

He almost winces then, a small shade of something bitter and rotten - an old, fermented ache - merges with the blue of his eyes. They suddenly seem darker.

"She even has the same colour of eyes. Hazel. Bright - you know? Like there was a light inside - this inner light. Charlotte always had these eyes that would...light up. She was my light-," and Jane's sight is back on the photo, his voice fond and **away **-_ far far away _- and God!

I want to reach out and take the photos back, shut the folder...

...hold him.

"They could be...cousins, or something. She looks so much like her. Don't you think?"

His voice is light and feathery. Not sad, per se. But distant and strange.

I don't like this...

_I am not comfortable with this at all..._

But my decision is made up.

All I can do is hope I'm making the right decision.

Jane is completely still now, but he reaches out with his fingertips, and traces the photo, traces the outline of the child, his hands flittering over her eyes, as if he's trying to... **_will_** her into existence.

I can't help wonder who he's thinking about.

Who he's trying to bring back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title - Little Stars - Part 8**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Next up: OC: child victim/ Protective!Jane

**A/N:** shorter and random. An interlude to the office scene that will be coming up before the team travels to L.A. - that's all this is. Nothing special.

I am... I must say... having a _very, very, very (_atrociously) bad night. I might not be posting for a few days. Just a real awful night, so this is probably 'lighter' in some ways (a lame attempt in cheering myself up). Which is pretty ironic since I couldn't stop crying all evening. *sighs*

* * *

Jane gets another shower.

He says he's not cold...that he just wants a shower, but he grouses when I try to take his temperature again.

"I'm fine, I'm good. We're...starting this tomorrow? We head out then?," and he points to the Castleton file, his eyes showing a degree of insistence - true, burning intensity - that I've never seen from him on any case before. Correction...not from any non-Red John associated case.

"Yes," I test carefully, feeling his antsiness. "We have to leave for L.A. I'm packing a bag tonight."

He's lost in thought, his hands grasping his upper arms, the t-shirt exposing the white expanse of forearm. He runs one hand through his mop of curls, distracted, and then lets his left hand fall limp to his side.

I see the scar.

The punctuation, and the thickness of the cut. I had seen it, in part, last night.

But now, in the light of the hallway, it's even more apparent.

I look back towards his face, relieved he hasn't seen my stare, my glancing.

He's admitted to the act itself, sure. Doesn't mean he wants me staring at his scars. Literal or symbolic, though they may be.

"Do you need to use the washroom before I go in?," he asks softly, a whole new level of need tainting his question.

"No. Go ahead. I'll leave your suit by the door if you want to get changed afterwards? We probably should pack a bag up for you tonight, too."

He looks... startled by the suggestion.

Confused, then aware, and then..._antsy._

"Or tomorrow, I could pack it tomorrow morning, before we leave. It won't take me long."

His arms are rubbing at the same spot as before.

He's anxious.

Suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt that he doesn't want to go home. He's better, physically, sure.

But I can sense what's going on.

He doesn't want to be alone.

He also doesn't know how to ask to... stay. He doesn't know how to ask for that sort of comfort, connection.

For that sort of _friendship..._

The realization makes me feel terribly sad. Not hurt by him.

But hurt...**for him**.

_He's probably embarrassed just thinking about asking..._

I decide to put him at ease, immediately.

"Ok. Early to bed, early to rise?," I glance down at my watch, "and ONE movie. Just one."

Jane gives me a faint smile. A ghost smile.

* * *

I hear gagging.

Light, muffled.

I hear something like water or liquid, splattered, and then more gagging.

A deep breath, as if he can't breathe well.

Rapid breaths.

More vomiting.

In alarm, I go to the door, and almost instinctively turn the handle, go to him.

But the shower is still storming, and the shower-radio is still blaring out some sort of 80's music.

All the Cats are Gray, _The Cure_.

A large thumping techno beat has made the retching difficult to hear, so it's only as the music fades and the radio announcer kicks in that I, indeed, hear anything at all.

I press my ear to the door, and listen patiently. Frown when the vomiting occurs yet again a second later.

_He's still obviously sick..._

And I'm about to knock on the door and call Jane out for lying to me about no longer being ill, when I hear a new sound - one that's _worse_ than the retching.

**_Crying._**

It's not loud or staccatoish, as if he's actually... sobbing.

It's not pronounced crying at all.

He's very much...in control, actually. It's very much a private sort of grief he's allowing himself to feel.

And somehow, that's worse. Because I can't do anything to help him now. I can't address his pain...or make a move to stop it. Not without drawing attention to the fact that I've heard him. Not without causing him shame.

Plus - the fact that he's thought ahead to muffle the sound with the radio, and is making a concerted effort to not let me to hear... makes me think this is something that must happen a fair bit.

Maybe not every day.

Certainly NOT _that _often. But enough that he knows when the feelings are starting to reach critical mass. Often enough that he knows how to cover up his pain, and what to use at his immediate disposal to achieve that end result.

I know then, in retrospect, that the heaving I had also heard earlier was not a remnant left over touch of flu

Not _at all._

But pain, shock, grief, anxiety.

**_Torment._**

He is... a tormented man whose struggling to become... free. Which, I suspect, is causing him even more confusion, and even more guilt. If he's happy, he feels guilty. Which causes renewed pain, stronger and more unfair that the ancient pain that he's been travelling with for so long...

He sees the new photos of a new victim who looks so much like his daughter, but might just have a chance. And how is he supposed to feel, knowing that the child's life may be partly dependent upon what he can or cannot ascertain about the abductor?

He hears what that little girl went through - what she faces if we don't find her in time...and...

_I'm not surprised that this is making him sick._

_

* * *

_

I return to my bedroom, and change into fleece pajamas. And although I had planned to change later - _much later _- once I knew that my guest was deep asleep and had no chance of seeing me in my ridiculous evening wear... I also know that in the smallest, slightest sense... breaking my normal routine will redirect Jane's thoughts. And any redirection (or almost any), is going to be better than simply doing nothing, saying nothing...and letting him wallow in his memories and insecurities and pain.

I stare down at the Eeyore print, all purple colours with pink mock-plaid lines, and I wish a curse on Tommy, and his son, and his son's son.

Because these are _ridiculous pajamas _for a 36 year old woman. For a Senior Agent of the CBI!

Yet, I know they will make Jane laugh.

* * *

I wait 10, 15, 20 minutes later...

The water is still running.

I come to the oak door, and rap lightly against the frame.

"Jane? You ok?"

If I asked "_almost done?" _it would have sounded pushy, whiny. Sort of like I was asking him to _"give me back my bathroom."_

Which isn't it at_ all._

I'm worried. But I don't want to TELL him I'm worried, and I don't want to open the door and walk in my possibly nude consultant.

_'Sure you don't, Lisbon'_

The shower turns off abruptly, as if I've requested he get out. right. now.

Or - worse. Almost as if he's read my mind.

I push down totally irrational ideas before rapping on the door again.

When I hear no response, I open slightly - _just a crack _- and try once more.

I hear an almost silent "yeah?" and a thick wall of steam assails me. The water must have been **hot.**

"You okay?," I say again, my voice less certain and strong now that I'm talking through a slight crack in the door. Everything seems...amplified.

"Mmm hmm."

I can hear the shudders as he speaks, the clogged sound of a full nose - the tell-tale sound left over from his crying bout.

"I'm fine, Lisbon. W-why?"

It sounds as if he has allergies.

"Just...a long time. I guess...," I trail off.

His throat sounds sore.

"Did you want to watch more Cary Grant? Or did you want to just watch your crush? That might be easier."

I try not to look - _I'm **not** looking at Jane_ - but my eyes peep through for a second all on their own, just fluttering open when I hear his confused _'"what?"_

His hand is trying to bat at a towel from the towel rack.

I really hope he doesn't think I'm actually**_ IN _**the bathroom.

"What crush?," he says a second later, sounding confused and nervous.

**_'Nervous?'_**

"Your _delightful _Agent Scully?...," I sing-song, while I hear him expel a pent up breath, a fast, quick, high pitched laugh threatening to take over as he speaks again.

"Oh yeah. Her. I could watch her all day. She's feisty - it's hot."

"Men," I mutter, with feigned-disgust, while I hear the sounds of Jane towel trying himself off.

"Want anymore tea?," I pipe up, suddenly feeling the need to speak. Suddenly feeling...awkward with silence. "Or have you had your quota for the day?"

He sticks his head out from beneath the glass partition of the shower doors, and I see him lick his lips.

"Chai? I'm up for Chai," he queries, while I smile, broadly.

"_Someone _has been snooping in my cupboards."

"I was looking for honey!," he says suddenly, "you have chai, but you don't have _honey_? It's...sacrilege!"

"Truly it is," I mutter, "but if you checked out the baking supplies, you would have found the powdered stuff."

"Baking supplies? Why do you have baking supplies? You don't bake," I hear Jane snort, before talking loudly, "You mean icing sugar? You don't put that in tea, dear Lisbon."

I decide to just... brave the expanse of the bathroom, and make a grab for my green toothbrush. I then dab some of the strawberry _Patrick-Jane-approved _paste on the bristles.

"Why not? I mean, sugar is sugar, isn't it? And that stuff is SO sweet. I can pick up one bag from Safeways, and be good for a whole year."

The head sticks out again not a minute later.

"Are you brushing your teeth?," he asks, glee on his face while I turn to him once more. I stop, and bite down a laugh.

His hair is starting to dry, and is sticking up in multiple curly directions. One tendrilled strand is falling over his forehead, and I eye it quickly, taken with how...

_cute?_

...authentic and very, very _real _and human and..._vulnerable_ Jane seems right now.

Now is **not** the time to inhale toothpaste. Not as if there really _IS _an appropriate time to inhale toothpaste - although I'd never want to do so in front of Jane.

The teasing would never stop.

"I'mmn dnne," I speak about two minutes later, in garbled format through my paste-filled mouth.

"Huh?," Jane smiles, and I can see now that he has transferred the towel from his body to his head... towel drying the last of his slightly damp locks.

I fight down a weird jitter when I finally realize - _although it's obvious, and always should have been _- that the man before me is completely, utterly naked.

Behind a shower door - but _still_.

_'Thank goodness the glass is frosted...'_

I spit the strawberry pink foam into the sink, then gargle with a little water from the tap. Spit. Press my mouth against the hand towel to take off any remnant moisture.

"I'm done for the night," I reiterate, while Jane smiles again - a look of something cheeky and mischievous starting to settle over his features.

A far better look than any where I'd worry he might start crying, of course. _Because I hate it when he's upset._

And, honestly, I'd rather that he try to make _ME_ upset, than have to listen to that god awful weeping again.

But still...

"_What?," _and it's my turn to question him.

He gives me that shit-eating grin and I'm suddenly taken aback by the redness of his eyes and how it conflicts with the overall goofy demeanor.

_Acting..._

_He's just...acting._

No one can go from crying, to feeling...silly. Not in two minutes.

"No, tell me. Seriously, Lisbon. What are you REALLY doing in here?"

I blink. Stupidly.

"Isn't it apparent? Brushing my teeth. You were taking _forever_."

The smile doesn't diminish. In fact, if anything, it grows larger and aggravatingly more radiant.

"But I was finishing up. You came in here _KNOWING_ I was finishing up."

I roll my eyes, reach for my floss picks. They're called Sharkies. Tiny plastic blue-green shark sticks assigned a length of floss.

They are the type of floss picks that you get for little kids, but oh well. Because _since _I was a kid, I've been terrible at flossing.

And because of it...my dentist gives me heck every time I go for my checkup and have another cavity.

_No more..._

"Someones IGNORING me," Jane sings out, breaking through my random thoughts - a chuckle lingering in the air as he speaks.

"I'm not_ ignoring _you, Jane. I'm just not replying to your idiocy. It's my bathroom. This-," and I hold up the bag of sharkies floss, "is my floss. I'm not doing anything wrong."

When I'm done with my abbreviated flossing routine, I reach for my brush and put some detangler through my hair before I start combing the product totally though. My hair is always this untamable mass of brown. I hate it most days.

"Careful, Lisbon," Jane says warmly, "you don't want to actually tug those gorgeous locks _out_!"

This time I DO ignore him, and continue at the task for a moment before he asks me to pass him his pajamas from the chair. I do, and his wet hands connect with mine for a brief second, before the clothes are whipped away - hurriedly.

I hear the shower gate firmly close with a definite, resounding _click._

He steps out...fully-clothed...only a few seconds later.

"Then you were **_worried_** about me," he tries again, studying me for a brief time.

"_What_ are we talking about now?"

Of course...I know what he's talking about. But I don't say this, I can't say this - and he KNOWS I can't say this, so his eyes are twinkling away.

"Ok. Deny it all you want. The only OTHER explanation...if you DIDN'T come in here because you were worried about me, well...then the _only other reasonable explanation _is that you were trying to catch a piece of THIS!," and he puffs his chest out proudly, his face cracking at his own goofiness, hair now having fully blossomed into a display of near-ringlets.

"Oh yeah, that's it... _obviously _you peacock."

His smile doesn't falter and I smack him in the chest, amused in some weird way when he laughs at the contact.

I finish brushing the last of my hair, before securing everything in a bun.

When I look back to him, I catch his eyes roaming over my body.

I blush.

I can feel myself blush - my whole body feels hot and prickly.

"Nice pajamas," he guffaws. "WHO bought you _those_?"

I bite my lip to keep from threatening him with strangulation.

Mainly because I know he'd just grin if I said anything of the sort. That, or say something suggestive.

"Deeeflecting..."

He's nothing if not incorrigible.

"Ok. Fine. Ok? Gabe started calling me Eeyore back when he was little. Thought it was _hilarious_."

Jane walk-escorts me back to the couch, where he immediately sits down cross legged like a kindergartner. His feet are bare.

"Gabe?," he says, reaching again for the Garfield mug. Polishing off the last of the no-doubt-by-now-totally-flat cola.

_I mean...the stuff has been sitting out here for hours..._

"Gabriel - my middle brother. He's 28 now. Studies monkeys," I expound simply, as if that's all there is to Gabe - before handing Jane the remote, then getting an idea. A very simple, practical, I _should-have-offered-this-before_ idea.

My face is still burning though, so I stall, wondering if Jane will read more into my suggestion if I ask him what I'm about to ask him...right now. With a still-red face.

"What is it?," he asks in amusement, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

"Get off the couch. We'll make it out," and I stop, kick myself mentally, and then almost_ kick _Jane literally as his smile becomes radioactive.

"We'll _make out? _Did you _really just say we'll make out_, Lisbon? Because we've never ever shared a _kiss_, and I don't think I'd be comfortable with a full blown petting session before a simple kiss, but-"

"We'll make it_ up_," I ground out a second later, my voice laced with warning of violence if he keeps this up.

I point to the couch.

"We'll make up? I think that's impossble to do... since we've never actually..._been together_...," he starts, all innocence boyishness, seemingly energized by my embarrassment.

**_Oh, the little louse!_**

"The bed. We can make up the bed. It's a pull-out," I growl, and Jane wags his eyes.

"You want to make out on a bed?"

I almost can't believe I was so upset about him...crying...not five minutes ago.

Because try as I might, I can't seem to feel all that upset any longer.

"The _couch," _I try once more, fumbling around now, feeling off-kilter.

He's grinning from ear to ear, and just about to open that twerpish little mouth of his, when I cut him off.

"Oh _shut up, you moron_. I meant...that the couch comes out. Pulls out. We might as well pull it out. Make a proper bed for you. Because you might no longer be that sick, but you are obviously...delerious from resultant brain damage."

His eyes are darting back and forth over me, as if I'm some majorly interesting document.

"You just remembered this now, huh?"

"What?," I sputter, exasperated, and under my breath I say - deliberately loud, _"oh I so DO WISH I had left you at the CBI..."_

I'm getting annoyed.

And he doesn't seem to care in the slightest.

In fact, it seems to be giving him fuel. Energy.

"You only recalled that your couch had this...amazing feature _tonight_? I mean, why didn't we make me a proper bed _last night_?"

"Do you _want_ to sleep in a bed or not, Jane? Because keep this up and you can sleep in the car! Or even the street!"

I'm not serious of course, but I try to glower at him...so he thinks that I am.

Instead, he reaches out, face alight with mirth, and touches me. Cool fingertips linger moth-like against my shoulder before moving up to my throat, my jaw, before coming to stall against my cheek, where he finally taps a couple times against my face.

"What are you?-" I'm cut off by more of his idiocy.

"Oh, I want to sleep in_ a bed_, alright," he says deeply - deliberately trying to sound husky and wanton.

I want to pull out my hair.

"You are the **MOST** infuriating person I have ever met, bar none!," and I chuck his pillow at his head, where he takes it laughingly, catching it with one hand.

"It's not _**my**_ fault that you went and messed with my brain by wearing that truly _DELIGHTFUL little number, _Lisbon. I mean - seriously! It's enough to give me...bad dreams...," and he winks in exaggeration.

_He's just joking, just fooling around. None of this...means...anything..._

"I could report you for sexual harassment, you know that?," I try, a smile now spilling over my own face, too.

_Damn it. I wanted to say that without smirking._

"YOU?," he smirks, "_You report me? _You? Who tried to see me naked? Who randomly _propositioned me with make-out offers_?"

I pull the couch out fully, where it snaps into its new shape, steel rod limbs going down to the parquet tiles. Grabbing the cotton throw nestled by the love-seat next, I make a makeshift bed and Jane hops down onto the whole contraption not a second later, immediately resuming his cross-legged pose. He bounces a little from that position, as if admiring the springiness - suddenly more interested in jumping about like one of the creatures Gabe studies.

"Trampoline-y. You should bounce with me. It'd be..._fun_."

I know what he's doing. I see it then.

With that annoying wide-stretched smile.

"That's it...no more Pepsi for you," and I take the mug away from the coffee table, unnerved by the sheer...number of times he's been sexually suggestive in the last five minutes.

Of course, he's also doing what he_ always does _when he's hurting.

He's teasing. He's making jokes and trying to laugh.

_So that he can keep going..._

"Oh Jane- you can bounce all you like by _yourself_," I say, a pleasant smile quickly spreading. I feel immense joy when I take in his gobsmacked expression of shock not a second later. "But pleasedon't wreck the springs, and PLEASE wait until I'm in bed," I smirk, noting quickly that it's his turn to go pink.

"Uhhh," he clears his throat. Stares at the TV. Picks up the remote. Looks totally thrown off course.

I can't help but laugh as I amble over to the kitchen.

"You wanted chai, right Jane?"

That does it.

The mention of tea, apparently, fixes everything for him.

(Either that, or he's latching onto the change of subject with intense need)

"Yes dear!," he chirps.

I shake my head and grab for the box of Twinings Chai, convincing myself...everything will be alright.

Jane will be alright.

If he can laugh, he'll be ok.

And if he's not ok, I'll remove him from the case.

It's simple.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title - Little Stars - Part 9  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Next up: OC: child victim/ Protective!Jane

**A/N: **they're on the case, now. The poetry, btw, is by one of my all-time favorite poets, Rainer Maria Rilke. The snippets used in this chapter are from his beatific _The Duino Elegies_ (Specifically: The First Elegy).

Oh! Before I forget!

I left thank you notes and comments afterwards for all those who reviewed chapter 8 ;)

Aside from that little nugget, a gentle warning: this chapter was nothing if not _EXPERIMENTAL. _On many levels, perhaps - though primarily experimental re: shifting in thought processes' [the flipping of past and present emotions, recollections...] I wanted to show, if possible - how the flash back state truly merges into the present, not only co-existing, but sometimes completely blotting-out all other current sensoral data. So reviews on THAT aspect would be truly VERY much appreciated, indeed. For example, is it too hard to read? Or did it...work, in some sense? Not in others?

Reviewers, btw, will get macademia nut cookies :p Now that's a deal!

* * *

Chai tea in hand, the suggestive comments die down pretty quickly as Jane becomes inordinately calmed by (amusingly enough!) _Animal Planet_.

Suggestiveness, however, would be much more preferred to the bleak sense of reality that starts to descend after a few moments, though. Because Jane, as if on que - has selected a program that takes a_ "sombre look at the lives of African Elephants"_, to quote the presenter- Joaquim Phoenix.

And sombre it is!; not five minutes in, we are shown the pitiful cam-corder shots of a mother elephant weeping for her baby who died of anthrax. Died...some time ago, by the look of things, as the mother is holding a tragically small skull, and stroking it with her trunk.

"Can we turn this off? It's...rather depressing...," I begin, more than happy to watch _When Sharks Attack! _...even though I have a pathological fear of sharks.

Fear, of course, trumps anguished tears and weeping of that poor mother elephant, any day.

"Seriously Jane! This is just...making me miserable. Turn it off..."

Jane turns, finger held outwards, lost in thought.

When he speaks, I know - as is typical - he hasn't listened to a word I've said.

"Did you know that a mother elephant is pregnant for over two years, Lisbon? And if she loses an infant due to sickness or predation, she often never has another infant again? She mourns and mourns, but very rarely gives birth to another..."

"Again, Jane - _depressing_," I stress, while I watch him...now absorbed. His lip is caught between his teeth and he's..._sucking, sucking_. Almost...removed from me, my words, this room.

I glance to the coffee table.

His tea is cold.

"You mind if I dump that?," and I point to the chai. After all, we are leaving for LA tomorrow morning. Laundry, dishes...that all has to be done. Stuff needs to be thrown out, garbage taken out to the dumpster.

Jane can gripe about my lack of proper foodstuffs all he wants, but the truth is...if we get a call to go to LA for three weeks, _we go to LA for **three weeks.**_

And, frankly, I don't want to come back to a smelly apartment, infested with mice, thank you very much.

"Jane? Your tea?"

I really DON'T think he's ignoring me. He's just utterly...involved with the TV program. So much so, that he's become temporarily deaf.

_Apparently._

Ok...if the man wants to talk about elephants, _we'll talk about elephants_.

I sit down beside him, take a long sip of rum and coke. Nudge him with my foot.

"So...how long did you know...Daisy? Since you were a kid?"

Daisy wasn't a young elephant, and it would be interesting if Jane knew her from the time **_he _**was a little kid. From his Shirley Temple days. Heh - maybe she raised him. (Some kids are raised by wolves; Jane...elephants?)

I force down a laugh.

It would explain his fascination with animal programs. The thought causes me to smile broadly into my glass once more, just as Jane waves his hand, dismissively.

"Oh...no, no. No, Lisbon...Daisy never_ had_ a baby," he says distractedly, his answer so far off the mark that I snort. He's still paying total attention to the National Geographic special, but nothing else.

And then, scantly a second later: "**_Look_** Lisbon! Look how_ cute_ they are at birth!"

I turn, catch the screen. Catch what's _HAPPENING_ on the screen.

Make a face.

An elephant is _giving_ birth. Blargh! There's a lot of pink tissue and wettish red goop everywhere. There are...disturbing... sloppy sounds, and scarily enough... there is a pile of jelly-grayness, all boneless limbs and staggering trunks... as the baby struggles for breath.

It's all a little unnerving.

But especially the goop.

"Ugh. _Lovely_," I mutter under my breath, before I speak a little louder. "I don't think I'd call _that _cute, Jane."

He turns to me, his face a little startled.

"You don't think newborns are cute?"

Something tickles my stomach. A feather has fallen. Because I'm pretty sure he's not just talking about _elephant babies_ any longer.

I take another sip of cola. Mentally prepare something to say that doesn't make me sound as if...

"Not a baby person, huh?," he says evenly, interrupting my thoughts when I don't respond in a timely fashion.

I stare at the screen...transfixed by the blood. Another sip of rum seems like a good idea...

_I need to stop drinking this every night..._

"I...I don't _know_, Jane. I like elephants fine. I liked_ Daisy_," I say pointedly.

_Please stop asking me these questions..._

He studies me for a second before a smile breaks through - scattering his serious expression.

"You're SQUEAMISH! Tough Agent Lisbon, squeamish of the whole process!"

I try not to roll my eyes as his legs tap excitedly against the bed, his knees coming up under his chin... his face propped against them.

He looks almost like a little kid when he does that. All mused hair and rumpled clothes.

"I...no. I..._what?_," I huff, suddenly annoyed. Defensive, actually.

But I mean, he's being totally unfair. "_WHAT_ process?," I snark, a second later.

Jane's legs stop their tapping. He seems focused now - calm and yet intense at the same time. Something only **_Jane _**can do, I think.

"The process of giving birth...it make you...," but he stops then. Reevaluating, probably.

His eyes feel like twin blue coals, burning. Trained on me, my face.

"You're...squeamish of..."

I scoff into my cup, only frowning when he amends his statement a moment later.

"**No**...no that's not it at all! Not **_you_**...you're not squeamish, exactly. It's not the blood that gets you... Why would it, I mean?"

_This feels strangely..._

"You're **scared**...," he asserts again, his eyes suddenly looking darker and deeper. The teasing tone now... totally absent.

_**...this feels strangely...**_

_**...intimate.**_

And not in a romantic way. In a way I can't define. Instead, it's in a way that almost makes me feel...

_embarrassed?_

No.

**_Exposed._**

I take a sip of the rum, because third times the charm, right?

"Lisbon...," and his voice is mild now. Meek, almost. "You're not...scared?...," and he lets the question hang. "Are you?"

I try to push away the almost harrowing (no!) delight that surges through me as I feel the alcohol scorch my throat.

"Scared - oh yeah, sure... I'm_ scared_." Assuredly, I don't sound scared NOW; my words come out as sarcastic and bitter. "An elephant giving birth...that definitely scares me!"

He mutes the television. Turns towards me. Total seriousness now.

_Oh brother._

"It's not the idea of the _elephant_ giving birth that scares you. It's the idea of..._you_...giving birth. Having a baby. One day.**_ That_** scares you."

And then, despite his boundary-crossing, he gets some 'genius' idea to reach out and try to _touch me with his hand...and..._

I knock my drink over, startled. Pepsi fizz rolls over the table and down onto the carpet.

_fuck!_

_"Damn it!_," I hiss, not really angry that there is Pepsi on the rug at all. In fact, in a weird way, I'm sort of.._.happy._..there is Pepsi on the rug. It gives me an excuse to get up and get out of the room.

Jane just watches as I leave to get the paper towels, the club soda, the oxy-clean. I return a few seconds later, pressing on the carpeting immediately.

_Not looking him in the eye..._ But of course Jane being **Jane**...his curiosity takes over and he continues on. Not in a glib, teasing way. No: in that _Jane-has-a-bone-and-he-can't-let-go_ way.

"I just don't know yet...," he starts, almost hesitantly, "if it's a fear of the _physical process_ of giving birth, or the _emotional _aspects of becoming a mother. Or maybe it's both?"

"Would you stop with your God-damned_ psychoanalysis_ for a second and help me clean this up, Freud?," I rasp, feeling anger slip into something I need to push back at - push back at, or push down. Or maybe just neutralize entirely.

Fear.

That's it.

_**Fear.**_

I blot at the carpeting, frowning at the brownish cast that the club soda _isn't_ removing. Probably will NEVER remove, damn fucking drink.

_Fear has my heart in a vice-grip._

"I...I...," I take a deep breath, the image of Jane crying in the bathroom an hour ago - _that horrible, haunted crying_ - making me feel instantly repentant for any anger I've just displayed.

"I'm sorry," he interrupts me - his voice small. Contrite. So I look up, and I can tell that his apology is... genuine. He looks...withdrawn, _saddened_.

Of course, the ball is in my court now. I know it. He knows it. And he's waiting for me to speak... To expound upon some... feeling, some emotion...

**_/fear/why do i feel afraid?/ stop it/ stop it teresa!/ you are in control here  
_**

...that he can't really understand in a logical context.

"Lisbon?"

"That's okay," I mutter, still feeling anything other than..._OK_. "Don't...apologize..."

"I should, because it wasn't...okay. It's _not_. Obviously. It was rude. It was in bad taste...it was...," he stops, lets out a breath, "it's a private subject."

I continue to blot. Blot, blot, blot. Rub in some of the oxygenating cleanser.

_Huh...what do you know? Suddenly, I'm very much into cleaning! I'll keep Jane another week or so, and maybe I'll get my pantry cleaned out, too!  
_

"It's...it shouldn't be, Jane. Off limits, I mean. Not for friends," I struggle with my own lack of cohesiveness, "I mean, it's not something that's normally off limits. For most people. To talk about..."

He nods his head just _so._ A delicate nod. Nothing excessive. Nothing _boisterous._ He's still...excessively watchful.

_Probably doesn't want to scare me off..._

"But it is for _**you...**_**off limits**," he supplies, very softly...as if he HAS to ask. "It's something...you don't want to talk about. It's something that hurts."

Except he's not really _asking_ now, is he?

"It's a sore spot for me, Jane, yeah," I admit, my voice faltering despite my best attempts to sound strong. _In control._

_Why?_, he's asking - with his eyes. His lips move - almost imperceptibly. I catch that. I catch the question lingering on his tongue, begging to be born.

Jane keeps his hands in his lap, though. Because if he tries to touch me right now, I'm... Well. I don't know what I'm going to do. Or say.

But Jane is Jane. If I don't give him an answer now...he'll get it tomorrow, or the _next_ day.

Even if he tries to respect my privacy, even if he stops asking... He'll keep wondering... He might even come to some hypothetical conclusions as to _why_ I am the way I am. What The Reasons are...Conclusions that hint of something...

_...worse than what's lingering around in my past, my mind, my psyche._

I can't have that.

I can't have that at _all._

"You're right," I speak cleanly - imagining my words as lacking in curvature, in...flesh. No flesh, no body. Nothing to expose. Words that are brisk, and strong and masked. All up and down angles, like perfect cursive. The cursive that got the golden stars in elementary school. No personality, but what the heck... pretty flawless. Nothing...to expose.

"You're right...it does scare me a bit," I start, giving him a chunk of bread, hoping to hold onto the loaf, so to speak.

And I can't help it; my eyes catch on his mouth, on his lip... caught between two teeth.

_A nervous habit..._

_Jane has a nervous habit..._

_When did **that** begin?_

"Becoming a mother? That scares you?" It's his turn to sound nervous, although it's muddled with genuine surprise.

And all I can think of is: _'he's nervous, but he's asking... why is he asking?'_

I stare at the carpet and take it in: the ridges, the colour, the lines, the little hooked nubs of burbur, looped. I take it in, and study it...and try to understand _how_ I feel and** why**.

And...what pat answer I'll give him, when I answer. (I have many to choose from, after all: my father's alcoholism. Or my feelings of...loss...in having to give up so much of my youth, to raise my brothers. My mother, dying. Take your pick.)

I know what I _won't mention._ What I _CAN'T mention..._

_The hitting. The beatings._

My worries about...how I could _turn out_...

"Have you ever been...afraid of something, Jane...but you weren't sure why? Maybe..._suspected _why, but..."_  
_

Damn he's quiet! And he's _never_ quiet. Unless he's utterly...absorbed.

_He's probably storing away your every word, Liss... your every breath...to analyze for later..._

"What I feel," I continue, "...on the subject is...complicated, Jane."

I suddenly fee far less scared than I thought I would two minutes ago

Far less scared. So why are my hands...shaking?

(Not a lot. A little bit.)

I press on the carpet with more force.

Damn stain.

Still nothing...nothing from Jane.

"It...well..._yes_, you're right. You know you're right - because you always are. There, I admit it: something _about it_ scares me. Happy now?"

"Lisbon...you-," I catch his eyes as if hooked by a lure; he stops talking abruptly, and I almost sway from the power of the _many, many emotions _I see...

_...sadness, first._

Pain, **certainly**.

_Something else...anger...or...no..._

_...not anger..._

...something like anger...but not _anger..._

_I don't want to return to this subject again. I don't. **I can't.**_

"If I tell you something, will you drop this? This whole pointless discussion?," I test, my lower teeth cutting up into my inner cheek. Grazing, cutting, sliding dead flesh off.

Or maybe_ "dead flesh"_ isn't quite accurate, because all at once I can taste something pungent and hot. Aha! A peal of blood, enough to coat my tongue.

"Yes," he says, his voice...resolute, drawing me back to him, to this topic.

"But I don't...I don't want to push you. I want to know why, but I don't want to push."

_This shouldn't be off limits._

_Friends should be able to discuss this with...other friends._

* * *

**I should be able to say, "Jane, ok. Well...**_when I was 13, my Dad punched me so hard that he knocked out my last baby tooth..."_

_

* * *

_

_I keep flush to the carpeting, blood spilling from a split lip... _

_I'm crying hysterically as he rages and tantrums about in a drunken stupor._

_Smashing light bulbs, next. _

_The high cracking sound of glass, breaking apart._

_Tiny pieces of glass are raining down over my head... _

_My bedroom...is darkened, immediately._

_Then a kick in the side..._

_...my ribs..._

_oh god._

_my belly hurts._

_

* * *

_

Jane has secrets, secrets he struggles with...and so do I.

Yet _could I tell him_...that I used to bite down and draw blood? Deliberately?

**_To feel alive?_**

**_

* * *

_**

_I'm scared. Oh god, my ribs._

_Oh god. What if...what if he broke them?_

_A supernova. Bright, intense._

_Blood. In my mouth._

_The shakiness is going._

_Good. Good._

_Bite, Teresa._

_Bite down..._

_(you know it will help)  
_

_Go away._

_(it always does)  
_

_Go away._

_(taste it?...that's blood)  
_

_Somewhere else._

_(you're still alive)  
_

_

* * *

_

Can I really tell him of being 13 years old, swallowing a tooth...the blood pouring down my mouth, into my stomach?

Can I tell Jane about the heat...the heat of blood gushing, and being swallowed as quickly as I could swallow it?

The odd, perverse (_sick...it's sick. it has always been sick!_) way I would remind me I was alive?

Do I tell him that sometimes...I've used pain - applied, controlled, deliberate...to remind me that I can feel?

_No._

* * *

I can't tell him that I...tasted that blood and focused on it... No! No... _meditated _on it like he meditates on fucking ocean imagery, or sandy beaches!

_No._

_You can't tell him that._

_"Lisbon?," and the voice - Jane's voice - is faint... like a memory, faint. _

_Faint and yellow and not really..._

"Lisbon?"

And I can't lie to him.

Even if I could...get away with it...

I don't want to start lying.

_An echo, his voice, a memory: "I'll clean it up, I promise."_

And I** know** then. It's resolute. It's strong. I know where I've heard those words.

Because I'm back_ there again_, in memory...

* * *

_Sport socks up to my knees. 13 years old. Dad just...thrashed me for the first time._

_He's hit before, but this was...closed fit. This was..._

_bad...  
_

_Really, really lined me up with his fists, his belt... his foot._

_A criss-cross back of belt lacerations. And how I'm going to HIDE THIS?_

_I can't hide this! Not in school! Not in gym!_

_A tooth...gone! _

_Damn it! They'll see! They'll see and they'll **know** and we'll all be split up!  
_

_

* * *

_

**His sneering, his rage. His volatile rage. **

**Do you remember?**

**Do you remember what it was like?  
**

_A pin drop, and a strike?_

_A little brother's nightmare, and a whipping?_

_And the memory then...so strong..._

**_"I'll clean it up."_**

_My blood._

_"Ill clean it up, Daddy."_

_I'm crying._

_*don't make him mad, teresa. no, no. keep him calm*  
_

_**His **carpet. _

_A yellow cleaning bucket. Soap and dish gloves. And me - 13 years old...scrubbing blood out of the floor rug..._

_My blood.  
_

**I can remember.**_  
_

_

* * *

_

"Lisbon? Are...you okay?," and Jane's voice now holds an edge of...worry. The start of something resembling...alarm.

**I want to say: **_"damn straight I'm scared! I can't be a mother, Jane! Me? Are you insane? I don't know how to mother!"_

Or, I want to say:_ "I don't deal with anger well, Jane. I'm scared...of what I might do. I'm scared of the possibilities."_

_

* * *

_

My Dad didn't start out as a child abuser, after all.

I can't - and won't - forget the trips I would take with him when I was very, very little. Before Mom died.

Tiger ice-cream, black and orange. **I remember.**

Showing me ladybugs in our small tomato garden.** I remember.**

Water-wings, and Daddy holding me up in the pool. Arms lifting me up at..._3 years old?_

_'"Kick your feet, Tessa! Come on...!"_

And I'd clap!

_"You're swimming Tessa Boo! Look at that!"_

Big grin. Daddy's grin.

Just for me...

* * *

He wasn't a monster.

He just lost mom.

He just got...sick.

That's all it was...

**_Sickness..._**

* * *

But one day, I'm no longer 3, 4...

One day I'm **14**, and something happens...and...

_Oh fucking SHIT._

_My wrist is broken._

_I know it's broken!_

_

* * *

_

I sat in my closet, and focused on the pain. I remember... focusing on deliberately trying to go numb.

_

* * *

_

But he...progressed after that point - to the the point _of monstrous _action, _monstrous deed_.

With the help of alcohol, of course.

So who really knows what sort of genetic crap lurks in my body, ready to manipulate me into violent action, too?

**_It happened with him...and you know...you know in your heart...he wasn't always like that..._**

"Lisbon - please..._say something_..."

Right.

**Right.**

Jane.

* * *

"I've seen too much...stuff, Jane. Just awful sickening stuff as a cop... and a lot of the worst stuff is the stuff that's happened to kids...you know?"

Jane nods - he agrees. Of course he agrees.

_How can he **not?** With a daughter, murdered?_

"I...respond...hotly. I...can't help it. That's not a good trait for a mother. I wouldn't **_make_** a good mother," and I have to spit the words out because...

_...they hurt, the words. To say. To admit._

_Because when Gabbie was little - when my brother was little and still feeding birds...I **helped** him feed them..._

_...because before I responded with aggression, and bit down on my lip to draw blood to deal with my anger, or punch walls to feel pain when I couldn'.anymore..._

_before all of THAT..._

_...I had a secret dream of one day having a little girl and little boy..._

_(And I was going to name the little boy Dylan, and the little girl Auden.)_

_

* * *

_

"Shit. This is going to **stain**," I mutter, all anger rapidly dissipating...only to be replaced by a queasy sense of grief.

I stare up at Jane, willing him to KNOW. **To see. **To not comment, but for him to still see, and**_ know. Without question.  
_**

"This stuff ALWAYS stains. It never comes out...," I grimace at the carpet, continue with my ministrations.

And he does reach for me then...reaches in a very UN-JANE-fashion, because he's nervous. He's actually NERVOUS - but he completely closes his hand over my own.

_His - warm. Mine - cold._

"Lisbon...we **aren't** our parents. I'm not...my Dad. And you're not your Mom..."

I hear my own sound of...hurt...claw up my chest. Old pain and even older bottled rage..._stagnant and fermented_...streams out of my lungs, and up my throat.

"I'm not worried about becoming my _Mom_, Jane..."

No sound.

No sound for an impossibly long time.

Just breathing.

And it's awful, because it's making me nervous. To know he's sitting there...thinking, thinking.._.figuring it out..._

Or_ not_ figuring it out...maybe just putting it together WRONG. All WRONG.

Of course, if I had any real courage, I'd just blurt it out!

Just say, **_"Oh JANE, don't you get it? My dad beat the fucking CRAP out of me!"_**

_But I can't say that._

_I can't._

**I can't.**

So he tries. He sees, he pictures, he TRIES puts it together...

He does, a little.

Because I can sense it.

That critical piece to the puzzle, locking in.

I can almost HEAR it, when it does.

_click_

"Lisbon...your Dad? Did he-?"

**But I can't keep**_ doing _**this.** I can't talk about this. Because I never have... and never will. It was a mantra. It was MY mantra... when I was 14.

After my Dad came home drunk out of his mind (_how he KEPT his job a whole year, I'll never know!_) and something was burnt...

_...what was it?_

Oh. The kraft dinner. That was it.

* * *

It was burnt, and he raged into my room, broke through the pathetic little lock. Ripped me out of my bed - where I had been laying, walkman buds plugged into my ears while I finished Trig homework...

And those arms - massive, muscled...a _fireman's arms_...reached through and just... yanked.

I was on the ground in the blink of an eye.

Stunned.

Stunned, but not SURPRISED, if you want to really know the truth. (Of course, he didn't mean to do it. Not really.)

People when they're drunk...they're impulsive. And he was strong.

And I was just this skinny 9th grader.

It was bound to happen sometime...

He was bound to break something, sooner or later.

* * *

I never really cried out. Not ever.

Not even when he was_ breaking_ my wrist, apparently.

Because Dad WASN'T a monster. He was just a little OUT OF CONTROL.

**/control. control. you were in control. you didn't cry. and you are in control now...not jane. you./**

White bone then - or a glistening promise of more to come, as the corner of the wrist bone broke the surface of my flesh...

The bone...I told myself...was a little white porpoise. It needed to come up to breathe. My open skin was an air hole. The slight, shimmering blood...was the arctic ocean waters.

(You find ways to cope. Use your imagination. Bite. Scratch. Make makings on your legs in the girls washroom. ANYTHING. But stay. in. control.)

_Nothing wrong with that..._

So, I push the skin apart, to see. TO SEE.

I had to see.

And there wasn't a whole lot of blood, if you want to know the truth.

You'd think there would be a whole_ ton _of blood if your Dad broke your wrist (breaks it 'till the bone staggers out, just as odd and out of place as my Dad, drunk, in my bedroom at 11 pm)...

But no.

Not _really._

I bled more with my first period, and I got through _that_ all on my own, too.

I was used to getting through things on my own.

* * *

A broken wrist...and all I could recall thinking through this **haze of pain was**...

_Your fault. Your fault. You burned the pan. You burnt it._

**That, and...**

_...you can't cry! don't cry, don't let him see, don't let him see!_

**_My Dad wasn't a monster._**

He'd probably_ cry_ himself if he thought - if he had KNOWN - that he had done real damage.

It's not as if he KNEW.

**_Because I hid it, and focused on the pain, and then focused on leaving the pain behind._**

And somehow - then - I knew one thing with utmost clarity.

I knew what I was** prepared to do for my brothers, for my Dad.**

**

* * *

No one. **_Not ever. They will split us up, if you tell. You can't. You can't. Not ever..._

_

* * *

_

_"Lisbon," _and the word is a tendrilled word. Gentle and green, of soft early life...and slight advancements now, Jane.

_Connection, attempted._

So I turn away, and scrub with greater vigor at what, ironically enough, looks like a rapidly spreading stain.

_Connection...**denied. Stay out of this, Jane. **_

**When I look up...I see...**

He knows.

"This shit STAINS, Jane," I say again, giving him a look...and holding it... Until...

_Shit. Stains._

Symbolism at its finest.

He's clever enough to know it, too.

I'm fooling no one.

"_Lisbon..._," his voice has a croaky sound to it.

I hold up my gloved hands, a physical sign to stop. To **STOP**.

He does.

"I'm not...talking about this anymore. I don't want to. And I don't HAVE to."

My voice sounds argumentative and offensive, truly.

He shakes his head cautiously, rustling soft sandy curls.

"No...," he tries, all patience and meditative-calmness that would make me angry, if I wasn't so fucking scared.

"No...you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Of course not."

_Damn RIGHT I don't!_

But I don't say this; I don't even WANT to say this. Because I might be angry that Jane made me remember...made me FEEL it all again...

But I know he wants to help.

I know he cares.

* * *

"It's an old issue, Jane. Old and...well, frankly, one that I buried a long time ago and don't want dug up, to tell you the truth..."

I try to keep my voice...not...flippant...

...but indifferent. /don't care. doesn't hurt. don't care. doesn't hurt/

"You think_ this_ is buried?"

I scrub with greater vigor then, because I'm not sure what I _feel_. What I feel for him (do. not. go. there!) , or how I feel about what he's doing - now. What he's trying to learn. And the reasons why he's trying to do..._any of this._

It might sound stupid, and self-destructive and idiotically self-aware at the same time...but these walls took a long time to build. I spent years fortifying them. They keep me safe, in a sense.

And they may not be the "healthiest things" in the world - these psychic boundaries that I try to keep up, try to keep erect... But let's face it...I'm NOT the loose canon Jane is! I DID my time with shrinks. I followed CBI procedure to the T. So Jane has a lot of nerve to ask with such incredulousness about buried_ ANYTHING_, given his pain, his issues.

"Lisbon, this-"

**_No._**

No more.

**_I'm done with this._**

"We have a **case**, Jane. We have a case with a REAL child - who in three weeks and three days, if we're lucky, that is - is going to be out of time. A little girl whose been sexually assaulted by her father for who knows how long... and whose had her mother has been MURDERED. And her so-called savior? The one who took her away from all that...shit? He's also going to kill her! So...I DON'T want to dig up my...buried...issues... We just don't have the time."

I see him swallow. Swallow, and release his gulp, his intake.

"I don't...I know you are trying to help," I mutter, feeling suddenly guilty and strangely sad, and more so when I look at his eyes. They are navy. _Darkest midnight blue_. Blue of the ocean, the deepest depths of the known world. And though they hint at a turbulent storm of emotions, I can also tell that Jane's starting to resume the facade of glossy ease, of put-on _non-disclosure._ Yet the eyes I look into are...unfathomably dark.

_It's not anger...it's not..._

_...what is it?_

_What scares me?_

"One day," I say, some foreign, uncharacteristic need to smooth things over assailing me, "if...if I ever _need to talk about it_, or if...I think it will help things...like... anything. A case. Whatever...I **_will_** come to you with it, okay? I promise."

My voice is a low buzz. The sound of electricity feeding into a computer. A hum.

_I'm...too overwhelmed (ashamed?) for it to be louder._

His nod is clipped then, but lacking in pettiness. Lacking in that scorned juvenile freeze-out! tone that I would have gotten from my brothers, for example. Or even from Bosco, truly - if I'm being honest.

_A lot of adults, really..._

_And you call JANE immature._

_You haven't...been fair..._

_Not always..._

_...have you?_

_

* * *

_

"Okay," and the smile is brief, but true. "Okay. Just...remember you're... _promising_. That means something. That means...we will talk about this. Later. When you're ready. Because it's not IF you ever need to talk about it; you **_do_**..."

I nod, a weak sense of alarm at the notion that - _yes, I've promised, I've promised to TELL_ - clashing around in my heart. Banging around like cymbals in each atrium.

Jane gives my hand a squeeze, then reaches over - one still holding me, one grasping for the Castleton file. A few photos tumble to the floor, and he grasps at those too.

And then: "did you set your alarm? Early enough? I still have to pack."

I nod, confused. Confused with the questions.

"Of course I did. Jane-"

"Set it earlier. An hour or so-"

I give him a sceptical look, though this routine - _this banter_ (his assertions, my questions) is so familiar that I seek this comfort...in the KNOWN. I seek, I grasp, and I hold on.

"It's set for 6 already. I'm not setting it for 5 unless-"

His eyes are skimming over the photos: a new painstaking intensity has shifted from me, my allusions, my issues...to the file and to little Dorothea Castleton.

**_Good._**

"_This_," he says, a tone of unrestrained need tainting the one word, "this is not...gibberish. This is poetry. And it means something. It means everything."

He lays the photo down. It's a wall shot, and the least graphic photo of all. No blood. Just words, in hot-pink. Barbie Pink.

"This is a message. And maybe he's pleading with us. Or maybe he's just pleading with himself, deep down. But this is it, Lisbon. I can feel it."

I pick up the photo carefully, noting that his hand...is trembling. The **why **behind such trembling...probably has more to do with plain excitement and his fresh, alerted focus on a possible lead.

"Read it.._.read it _Lisbon," and there it is again: that URGENCY.

So, I do.

In my mind.

"Aloud...read it aloud," Jane instructs, a moment later, no bossiness tainting his speech.

I clear my throat, give him a look...an _"okay, master, this better!"_ look. He grins.

Despite everything tonight, he grins.

I almost feel...normal.

"_Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? And even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:_  
_I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.__ For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,__ and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.__ Every angel is terrifying.__ And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing..."_

I pause, frown...put down the photo.

"What does it mean?"

Jane grins some more then. But the grin lacks warmth and joy. It's teeth-filled and heightened with a manic edge I don't like at all.

"It means _everything. _It's a clue. A big one. It means...that he, our killer..._identifies _with these children. He doesn't just care for them, or care ABOUT them...it's more than that. So much more."

I nod, dismally, the final line catching my attention. So I repeat the words, under my breath, "_I hold myself back...and swallow...the call-note. Of my dark sobbing."_

Jane's eyes are back from the depths. No longer ocean-deep, nor ocean-dark. But crystalline blue - a day-Jane. Not midnight-bleak Jane.

"Our killer isn't a killer by choice. He...hears the sobbing, he _knows _the sobbing. It's his own experience... He's lived through that...personally, and possibly...in some more _recent capacity_..."

I give him a look.

"The profile **already** suggested that our unsub suffered abuse, Jane. That's not new, that's not..."

Jane's head is shaking back and forth, infused with some surge of animation that I've never seen so strongly before.

"Ok, yes...there's that. Of course. He **_WAS_** abused," and his eyes toy with the carpet, with the stain - refusing to meet mine, until: "but...Lisbon...these_ kids_. He KNOWS these kids. He HEARS. _They_ are reaching out to him first."

He's up then. Actually standing.

Walking...and...

"Jane! It's 10 pm! Nothing is open!"

"Lisbon...these kids come to him! Somehow. They do tell him. I have to...I have to pack; we have to leave. Now. This is..."

"You think you are going to find it...now...? A book? Some sort of guide, the killer's 'Bible'? Listen to me, cause I'm really tired: _nothing is open_!"

His eyes burn blue. Blue fire. Hotter than before. Nothing is hotter than blue fire.

I'm at his side then, stalling him. Some distant, niggling voice provides the hilarious idea that I should try to take his temperature...

_'Yeah, as if THAT would go over well right now!'_

"This...isn't gibberish. I know it. In my gut. He...he'll..._there will be clues_. For anyone willing to SEE. He just wants us to see. He gives us time, too. It's not just about treating them. He thinks...if someone cares enough, they'll present themselves. An angel. This doesn't...have to end in death. Not Thea's...not his."

I reach out, hand on my door.

"You need SLEEP, Jane. You...you're still not 100%. Not yet..."

He scoffs, the noise pert and childish.

"I'm fine. Absolutely fine. And you said it yourself! Thea has three weeks, maybe less...so if we are-"

"If we can THINK. We'll be utterly USELESS sleep deprived! You know it!"

He's wound up. He can't stand still. I can see the...energy...coursing through his body.

**"Lisbon-"**

"Tomorrow, Jane. We'll get it all tomorrow..."

I lead him back (_he's still in his god damned pajamas!_), and lightly push him back down to the make-shift bed.

"Sleep. _Now._ We'll...we'll get everything we need tomorrow..."

I start to walk away, stop - surprised when his warm hand clenches mine. Not forcefully, but solidly.

_Pleading._

"You...you said...the _stains never come out_, and you're right, Lisbon. They...the stains...the human stains; you don't forget. You can clean and clean. You can bury it. You can pretend. Stains... they get faint, but they STAY. Those that know what to look for...can see the outline. It's always there...that outline. You can see it on me, and I can...see it on you, too._ I can_."

That weird feeling...of a feather tickling my stomach is back, and it's making a new rush of chilled fear course through my veins.

"Jane...don't..."

"You're right. For you, me...him...all of us. We've seen this, and it stains us. That...abuse, or that...violence. It becomes...a human stain. In us."

My heart is pounding too fast. Too fast and too loudly. I'm sure he can hear it...

"Jane, _please_..."

"I know.._.enough. I...can guess. I..._," he says, his voice hovering right at the crossroads between audible and inaudible. "I know enough, Lisbon. I won't assume specifics, and when you want to tell me, you can. But, please don't...worry that...," he stops, his eyes penetrating mine, "I'll...understand. I'll **_understand_**. I do."

I nod, feeling heavy and dull. Disoriented with this new revelation.

"But please...just promise me this. No matter...no matter_ what._..you won't take me off this case..."

It's an alarm, a psychic alarm. Loud, ringing.

It's a phone. My conscious, calling.

_Pick up, pick up..._

I should not ignore this.

"_Jane_..."

"We can find her, Lisbon..."

I should NOT ignore this.

But his eyes, and that photo. That little 7 year old girl, and her heart breaking _self-conscious_ smile. No child should look that...concerned; the way her hand came up to cover her mouth, ashamed with the recent loss of a baby tooth.

_You shouldn't make this deal with him. He's bartering with you..._

"We can find her Lisbon. We CAN find her. But not if you take me off."

My pulse is thready, and I'm tired...I'm..._scared_...

_'...terrified...you are terrified'...  
_

...of what **NOT** finding this child could do to Jane.

* * *

I look away, not wanting to look into two, clear pools. Blue pools.

Right now, the blueness is hypnotic. Engaging. Drawing.

"Ok, Jane," and I surprise myself. I really do, as my voice sounds certain, assured. Convinced that it IS okay.

That I'm not petrified of what I'm promising...what I could be _sacrificing_ here...

_'The man lost his daughter! He held her and shook her and tried to breath life back into a corpse!'_

"Ok," I say again, then still my hand, let his eyes shift to mine, to see and note the conditions.

He's well aware that I wouldn't promise something so weighty without a backup plan...

"We find her. We find her**_ together._** But if you do ANYTHING - and I mean anything, Jane - I'm serious! - to jeopardize...your health, and you'll be speaking with a CBI Shrink so fast it'll make your head spin..."

He holds up his finger, an argument already forming on his tongue.

"No...not _buts._ I keep you on, **provided** you don't do something so reckless that you're ORDERED off by, oh I don't know...Hightower. And I will pay attention. If you're not sleeping, if you get...sick...I'm...restricting your access. More and more until you..."

He cuts me off in a hug, hots hands grasping my back - almost pulling me to the bed with their force, their craving...

"No, no...I'll do it. I'll do any of that. Just...thank you, _thank you, Lisbon_..."

My mind is screaming at me for making this...deal with Mephistopheles. Because Jane's** not**...doing well, and this case is nothing but a bag of salt to his walking wound. The two of us, really - are the walking wounded.

Different wounds - incomparable, truly. Different secrets - remaining, obviously.

I can feel his heart thrumming away, his body still flush to mine, his hands working their way through my hair now... as if I've just offered him a life preserver.

_'...a chance to preserve life. Hers, the child. And his, in redemption...'_

Jane wants to redeem himself, I know it - I FEEL it! And the words of before - the words of the wall, Barbie-pink, girlish and intricate - race back to my mind, beating away with the thrum of his heart. In perfect sync:

**_"Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? _**

**_and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:_**

**_I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence..."_**

* * *

**Shout outs and thank you! thank yous! to**: Bouncerok; Jasadin; klcarr892; Coral Rose; Anna! Thanks for the support, guys!

**() - anon reviewer** ;) - mercurial DOES describe Jane, doesn't it? And it's a strong cry from simply moody...he just is INTENSE rather than moody. Intensely focused, absorbed in a task, given to large grins and larger findings and amusement in the smallest moments. Only later to be found holed up in his attic, brooding. He tries to cover the worst of his bad moods, but the audience can see his up's and down's...we can see just how intense he has to be...to sustain his 'up'! (Momentum?)

**MentalistLover** - yeah, I think that there is some deliberate...lack of acknowledgement (of feelings) on the show. I find it...fascinating...that Lisbon ended up having a sexual fling with a man who she found as irritatingly buoyant and spontaneous as Jane (although Jane is so deeply loyal and committed to the people he loves that THAT in itself is what attracts me. Mashburn's sort of flippant...use and discarding of people turned me off, even if his general boyish antics were, at times, in the same vein as Jane's...) Anyway, I imagine that if the show ever hints at a developing romantic attraction - they'd each be so caught up in trying to understand what they were feeling...that it would sort of take quite a long to process to fulfill 'together' status - which I actually would find very realistic (their relationship is sort of on the fence right now...intensely unique and special, with these undercurrents suggesting the possibility of something more... I can live with that.)

**MyBeautifulEnding** - thank you! Hugs back!

**Frogster **- Jane IS impish. It's a great word to describe him. And I think, if there was a moment of true romantic affection...he wouldn't be doing _that_ (making suggestive comments). Instead, it's his bizare way of breaking tension. And he does it on the show with sufficient regularity...that you just know he does it to rile people up, get them to laugh OR push their buttons for a 'higher purpose' (smirks). Oh - and messy!hair Jane IS my favorite, actually. I love him all the time, of course... But personally? I found him the cutest (well, one of the cutest scenes)...in the pilot, after he had been up all night, and his hair was all sticking up and un-brushed and he was slurping cola [the scene where Lisbon called up the psychiatrist, so Jane could get some sleeping medication]. I found him so...huggably damaged and intense. I think it was a strong statement (on the part of the creator) to have Jane showing that side of himself so early on. It showed how little he cares what OTHER people think, how obsessive he can be on a case, and also how...behaviorally...different he is... SO smart and on the ball in some ways, but compulsively having to do whatever he can to catch Red John...

**Jisbon4ever - **I love the more domestic scenes between the two as well. And I don't think they ONLY work in cases of...romantic attraction. I think, primarily the reason they DO work so well is that they...line up with what we see on the show. Which is a degree of acceptance and natural ease that most people with...stronger (if stronger = lustful, not rooted in friendship, first) feelings don't display. I do think on the show...they are more or less excellent friends FOREMOST with a strong sense of affection for one another.

I don't think the feelings have become noticeably romantic yet (not in canon - or not excessively!). I think they could develop (fingers crossed!)...because I think it's very, very obvious that _they care about one another intensely_. And the dynamic is so strong that you just start to feel that...Jane's issues, his grief over his wife, his inability to move on etc. are what keep Lisbon from even CONSIDERING him in a romantic light.

I think the chemistry is so undeniably strong though, that Bruno Heller would be incredibly smart to slowly create a healing!Jane - one who develops feelings for Lisbon. Not all actresses and actors hit it off and play off one another as well as Simon Baker and Robin Tunney!

And while Simon Baker is right...insofar that Lisbon and Jane often DO banter like siblings, I think there is enough of a bond, and a deep affection that they have for one another that...coupled with all of Jane's flirting...well... you start to think that he DOES have some latent feelings for her. He also cares about her so much that he's not even letting himself _consider_ what he's feeling. Because even in the season three premier, when she told him that he was pulling away from her, and the team, he admitted that it could be true. Mainly because he considers...Red John this ever-present threat. And that anyone he cares for, is targeted.

He may have found Kristina Frye fascinating in some ways but...she's no Lisbon ;P (I never felt the chemistry myself...more like, I felt that Jane was fascinated by her continual claims of connection to those who "have passed", and part of him -_ a small, but potently hopeful part_ - yearns for closure, yearns for peace, is still grieving for his family, and would like nothing better than to know that wherever they are NOW. And I think that's why he was drawn in ANY way to Kristina.)

Shutting up now!

**Xanderseye** - thank you :) I imagine that Jane does a lot of acting. His grins, even on the show, often seem too wide, and too eager. Almost manic, at times - especially when they come up during cases that would cause anyone to pause, feel some pang of..._distress_. I think he's been acting for such a long time that being...forthright with Lisbon is...harder for him than she would naturally assume. Possibly because he IS so forthright about so many things (including often just blurting out whatever's on his mind, even if socially inappropriate).

I think that's why Season 3 Jane seems...so different to me. Not different personality-wise, but struggling. He tries, of course, he keeps trying to cover everything up. But season 3 shows a distinct...awareness about the level of pain he's in... The scene in the attic, when Jane is staring off into a yellow sunlight room, all dusty beams and isolation? And he mentions he likes to be up in the attic...because of the _quiet._ And Lisbon goes.._."and what do you do with all the quiet?,"_ but Jane can't respond? Wonderfully acted. Because you know he's slipping, you know he's getting depressed, feeling as if Red John is slipping away, and then Kristina...

I can just imagine what would happen if Lisbon finds the gun Jane is keeping... I can imagine...quite a blow up! I don't envision yelling and scolding. I can imagine it would be pretty tense, though.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title - Little Stars - Part 10  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst. Next up: OC: child victim/ Protective!Jane

**A/N: **thanks for the encouraging reviews, guys! More...experimental stuff this chapter, though not quite so experimental-ish :p (along with notes to everyone who reviewed chapter 9 at the bottom, afterwards). Basically... this chapter will split focus from Lisbon's POV to...Thea's. You might THINK it's easier for me to write a scene from the perspective of a 7 year old. Not really. It's hard to get the age...feeling right, just_ so _(in my opinion). A VERY little kid or a teen would be easier, I suspect. A seven year old sort of straddles two worlds...(the personality is, apparently, fully formed by the age of 7, although some psychologists say it's even sooner, and that by 3 you can tell whose going to be a life long introvert etc.) Still... hopefully I struck the right balance...childlike, but not excessively mature or immature. (And I didn't want to model Thea on what *I* was like as a 7 year old, given that I was a pretty odd kid, in some ways).

* * *

_

* * *

_

_Oh, I **love** pancakes! Love love love SUPER LOVE!_

"Rudy, I love pancakes!"

Mr. Rudy smiles at me.

"Here you go, Little Debbie," and he makes a silly grin and gives me my plate. It's blue, not pink, cause my favorite colour is blue, even though Daddy always says girls should like pink and boys should like blue.

Mr. Rudy says that's a stupid idea and that anyone can like any colour cause colours are_ colours_. (Mr. Rudy also says that boys can like flowers and girls can like cars. That none of that sort of stuff really matters. Mr. Rudy says he follows the Golden Rule Path. Never do anything to someone if you wouldn't want them to do that thing to you.)

_AAAAAnyway_...Daddy wouldn't never, ever_ ever _let me have pancakes and syrups. He says pancakes make kids fat. He says I'm a ballerina - his ballerina - and ballerinas don't eat pancakes, either.

When I tell Rudy that, he makes a face at his plate. NOT a happy face. I ask him what's wrong, cause I don't like it when anyone is sad.

Then the frown goes away, and he looks happy again.

_"Worrying about being fat is what makes people fat. Worrying is what makes people sick, and gives them cancer. You laugh, you have fun, and so long as you don't hurt anyone, Thea, that's all that really matters."_

That's what he tells me._  
_

Mr. Rudy doesn't WORRY. When Chicory peed on my skirt with the flowers, Mr. Rudy laughed. And then bought me a brand new pair of coveralls. Cause I don't like skirts too much. I don't like dresses too much either. Rudy says I'm a Grade A Tomboy at heart.

"I'm in Grade 2!," I tell him, and Rudy laughs really loudly, says that isn't what he means. Cause Rudy likes to laugh, and have fun, and eat pancakes.

"Can I ghhve C'rceee smmme?"

I put my hand over my mouth. Ooops. Oops.

_You're not supposta talk with a full mouth. Mom says it's Bad Manners._

"Didn't quite catch ya there, Darlin'."

I swallow my pancake. Rudy got me blueberry syrup too, cause it's my absolute ABSOLUTE favorite.

My most favorite_** food **_is blueberries, really. So he got me lots of those, and blueberry yoghurt and blueberry juice, too.

**_He got it from this weird store with the hippie lady, who was wearing a brown cow t-shirt. _**

_We went in, and Rudy says to the lady, "This little doll here likes BLUEBERRIES, ain't that right, Thea? So, yeah - what do you have that's blueberry flavoured for my little neicey?"_

_I laughed when he called me his neicey, cause it sounds funny, and also because I don't think he's my real Uncle. Not like Uncle Greg. But he said a neicey is sorta the same thing, but not really. _

_That it's not lying.  
_

_The lady just laughed too, so I think maybe everyone Rudy knows just likes to laugh a lot._

_And then the lady showed us the blueberry juice. I've never even SEEN blueberry juice before. I'm sure they have to press a LOT of blueberries to get all that juice. And it's expensive, the juice. 1 bottle is almost how much Daddy gives me for my allowance each week, so I tell Rudy it's okay...I don't need any blueberry juice (cause I don't think he has a lot of money). But Rudy got me a bunch of bottles anyway. He kept passing them back to me, even though I was already in the cart and he already had lotsa other stuff in there, too. So then I got to sit in the upfront part when there was no more room for me and everything else (you know the upfront part... where babies go? Rudy says it's fine, cause I'm skinny, I fit.)_

_Daddy would never let me do that, but that day - I got to be a co-pilot. I even got to wear funny sunglasses. Rudy said to keep them on, so I'd be like a proper co-pilot._

"Can I give Chicory some?" I ask Rudy again, cause I know he didn't hear me the first time.

"Go nuts, Little Debbie!," he says, squishing his pancake into the plate. His syrup is just regular old maple, and we have a lot of left over stuff, so I go_ "here CHICK-REE!"_

Like that. And Chicory comes and eats the pancake. And the syrup.

Chicory is the puppy Rudy got me. He's reddish yellow, Chicory is. Rudy says he's called a_ Cocker Spaniel. _Chicory has floppy ears and droopy eyes and curly hair and he's just a baby. We got him from the Pet Store on the EXACT SAME DAY that I told Rudy that my Daddy has allergies, and that's why I can't have a dog. He just said,_ "oh, well... WE can have a Dog, right Snickers?" (He calls me Snickers too, sometimes; he says I'm sweet like a Snickers bar!) _

When I asked him how he'd get my Daddy to let me keep Chicory once we finished our break, he said he'd make Daddy_ "see the light."_

I don't know what that means, really. I think it means that Rudy will get my Daddy to change his mind, maybe. Cause he's an adult. He's younger than my Daddy (he's younger than Uncle Greg too, but he's super nice like Uncle Greg)...all grown up, still. So maybe he can get Daddy to change.

Maybe.

Maybe...

I hope so.

Cause Mom and Daddy are FIGHTING. THEY are going to have a divorce. I know it.

So I asked if that's why Rudy and me were on our trip, and he said _"yup, Snickers. But don't you worry. Once your mom and pop sort everything out, everything will be right as rain. Until now, your momma said I'm supposed to spoil you rotten! Lotsa treats!"_

Which sorta makes sense. Not the spoil rotten part. But the treat part. Cause my mom always does try to do little things she thinks I'll like. Like when Daddy works late, she sometimes takes me out to the McDonalds near the park and the big pool with the purple tiles, and we get french fries. Daddy wouldn't like that, cause I do dance and fries are NO good for me.

But when mom doesn't think Daddy will find out, she treats me. Sometimes - only when she's sure Daddy won't find out. Because Daddy can get MAD. Even at Mom.

"I love these pancakes. Can we have these everyday?"

It's important to tell people when you like their cooking. I tell Rudy again, 'cause I know he cooked these all on his own and I want him to know I like his pancakes.

"Oh, I don't see why not, Thea. We have...oh...at least 6 bottles of blueberry syrup to use up!"

Rudy puts a blueberry Flintstone's vitamin on my plate and says, "YUM YUM - boo-boo-booberry! Good for you. Get your viteeemens!"

I crumble it and push it in my pancake, and make a vitamin sandwich.

"Look, Rudy! Look it's a VITAMIN sandwich! Mini vita-men!"

He laughs at me while I eat it, and feeds Chicory another piece of pancake with butter.

Chicory has food - his own special food. But he likes pancakes better, I think.

Anyone would like pancakes better, I think.

* * *

I can smell...waffles or something.

And...coffee. Hazelnut..._mmm_...my favorite.

But...

_'No...no...he's **supposed **to be SLEEPING!'_

I fumble around and hit the side button on my alarm. The alarm glows a pretty purple, and the soft electric digits inform me that it is...

...6:16 am?

I didn't think it was that late. Not that it's LATE, truly, but I set the alarm for 6 am.

_...why didn't my alarm go off?_

More importantly: why is HE up?

"JANE!," I holler, stammering out of bed. The door opens a few seconds later.

"Yes...you...?"

He stops talking. Abruptly.

"What?," I bite, feeling snarky.

He's just smiling. Staring and smiling.

"_What_?," I hiss, prompting his smile to turn into a full fledged grin.

"Nice attire," he quips, looking all so..._delighted_...that I want to sock him one.

_What?_

_Oh._

_Oh **no**._

_Think, Teresa, think!_

"No - hold on! _Just_..."

Jane seems to understand, and he turns around slowly, dragging it out - _the rotten..._

"You really are a brat, aren't you?"

"I can shut the door for you... if you think it would create a satisfactory illusion of privacy? It won't for me, but I don't want to speak for you..."

I can almost see the smile, even though his back is turned to me, the little twerp. I turn around...and just pull on the closest thing I can find to me - which is a _Born to Run _t-shirt, with a wolf on the front. It was one of dozens of animal related t-shirts that Gabbie got for me over the years, and it's thread-bare from chronic use. There are even a few bleach splatters from where I used it during one of my so-called cleaning frenzy...episodes. Usually prompted by a bad case, a horrible case, and then me - at home, later, bleaching the heck out of my bathroom, washing everything down. Needing to move.

So yeah, it's not very flattering...

Turning back to him now, I try to give myself a quick appraisal without...letting Jane in on what I'm trying to determine...

It'll have to do...

"Just...ugh..._sorry_," I mutter, wanting to break the silence.

"Can I turn back around now?," and I can hear that god-damned smile lacing his words.

"**There**," I huff, the t-shirt now totally pulled down over my rather flimsy night shirt, before I turn back to him.

He's wearing..._jeez!_ I didn't even know I _OWNED_ an apron.

"Where did you **_get _**that?," I ask, though it comes out not unlike a seal's bark.

He ignores my question. Of course.

"You didn't have to change on my account, Lisbon." he cackles, amused. "I liked that shirt. The one you have on underneath this poor little rag...the other one," and he makes an A-okay! sign with his thumb and his index finger that brings a quirk to my lips. "I liked the colour of the...camisole, was it? What do they call that colour?"

He's almost rocking on the balls of his feet.

"I'm not falling for your crap, Jane," I start, knowing that somewhere down the line, there's a catch.

He holds up his index finger, his eyes merry.

_Wait for it..._

"I think it's called_ Tinkled Pink_!," and he laughs at himself.

"_Whatever_," I murmur, and _damn it._ Why do I always blush? "I wasn't naked or anything... You're acting like a toddler."

"Am I now?," he responds a moment later. "A _toddler_. Really? How so?"

Oh..._come on._

I was wearing a camisole. (_But no...bra, Liss_).

Normally... I don't have to think about what I wear or how I look in the morning. It's one of the joys of being single. I just get up...make myself a pot of coffee, brush my teeth, walk around in socks and underwear and wait for the clothes I did NOT properly dry to tumble about in the dryer.

_Big deal._

"Oh _shoot me _Jane, why don't ya? I'm not used to having guests over..."

"_Ohhhh? You're not?_," Jane smirks, his eyes flashing playfully.

He looks a little too revved with that information.

_Gleeful, really._

"Oh shut it! I like to be comfortable when I sleep, Mr. _Only-Silk-PJ's-Will-Do_. Is that a crime?"

_I really have nothing I can...throw at him...do I? Just...laying around?_

"Oh, definitely no_ crime_, Lisbon," he purrs. "Everyone wants to be comfortable. To be comforted..."

_It sounds..._

_...whatever._

_I'm not indulging him.  
_

"I'm sure all the Feminists _love_ you," I grumble, my patience now wearing thin.

_Because he really is just...fooling around._

"Well, they DO," he starts up again (_the little freaking train that could! that's what he is!_), "Love me, I mean."

I feel_...irritable _all of a sudden. Not that it takes much to put me in a bad mood before noon.

"What ARE you...?"

"Feminists," he quips easily, cutting me off. "They **do** love me. Because I cook for them. Crêpes, actually."

I must be really, really sleep deprived. Because very little about what Jane is doing or how he's acting makes sense to me right now.

Of course, Jane rarely_ MAKES _sense to me.

_But still..._

_"You make...feminists...__crêpes_," I repeat, monotone.

"Well, I made us crêpes. And scrambled eggs. And coffee, for you. I think you told me you sort of liked coffee once...but if I was mistaken, I can just...chuck it all out. A shame, but..."

I roll my eyes.

"Jane...it's not even 6:30!"

"That's why I made you coffee..."

"And crêpes...at 6:30?"

He looks nonplussed.

"So?"

I can see flour on his jacket lapel.

_The daft man cooks waffles in a three piece suit?_

"So...I **_never_** eat breakfast. I'm not a breakfast person."

His face falters.

**Oh damn it. Little bugger actually looks _disappointed_...**

I'm about to ask him to pack me some-to-go (_just stop giving me puppy dog eyes, jeez Jane_!), when:

"Come_ on, Lisbon_...it'll give you a valid excuse to ask me to leave without seeming as if you're overly worried about what I can possibly see right now..."

I take solace in the fact that the twitching of his mouth is somewhat...grounding.

_Familiar._

In fact, he looks as if he might **laugh **as I cross my arms over my chest, slightly uncomfortable.

"Oh shove off,_ Patrick_!," I growl, "come on, Jane...you KNOW you're being a pest now. What do you really get out of it?"

His eyes are...a little bit too bright.

Oh.

_**I get it.**_

I didn't let him run his 10 pm bookstore errand last night...

"Did you sleep, like we agreed? Or did you turn off my alarm and stay up all night?"

That stops his teasing, his eyes suddenly lighting up. Not in amusement, but a flash of...?

_Concern. He doesn't want off this case._

"Yes and no," he nods, "and in that order. I promise."

_Oh no. _

THAT'S a Jane-lie if I ever heard one.

"Oh, yeah, by the way...I have stuff to show you-"

"Jane! We had a deal! We haven't even LEFT yet and you're already breaking the first clause."

"No, no! I'm not. I promise! I got sleep. You know me, I don't need _much_ sleep..."

"Jane... **not** sleeping or taking care of yourself is WHY you got so sick in the first place!"

"Meh," he_ whatever's _with a flick of his wrist, "I slept enough. And when I wasn't sleeping, I was very productive. I actually printed some stuff off from your computer. Here, let me go get it..."

He walks briskly out of the room, so then (finally!) I take the welcomed opportunity to grab my sports bra, change, and pull everything back down in place before he returns.

"Here, _look_," he reads from the file, "It **is** poetry. Famous. I printed out some pdf files from the Stanford-"

He looks up then, eyes me, his eyes squinting to slits.

"You're fast. Wow. I was only gone for..._maybe_...30 seconds."

He bites his lip, looks deep in concentration.

"It was a racerback pull on one, wasn't it?"

I take a step back, not liking the feeling of being so studiously examined.

"I bet you...$10 it was a red racerback bra. Probably with white lines on it. Something sporty, huh?"

"Nice try," I stammer (it's actually red with black lines on it). "Stop being insufferable, and just tell me what you've got, Jane."

He snaps back to life, showing me where he's highlighted certain parts of the text in a collection of orange and green highlighters pilfered from my desk, before he hands over the notes to me completely.

And begins reciting...

"'_Every angel is terrifying. And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing. Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision'..."_

"You memorized it?," I cut him off, having read along, line for line as he spoke the words. Verbatim.

"Of course I did. We need to memorize EVERYTHING. Every detail. We don't know what will be essential, yet."

"**_This _**was what you were doing? Instead of sleeping?," I scan the poetry print off, "reading Rilke poetry?"

He nods curtly, but responds verbally only by continuing on,_ "'Oh and night: **there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces.** Whom would it not remain for-that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence, which the solitary heart so painfully meets."_

He says it again under his breath, as I listen - really listen, _"'There is night..._darkness, he was always alone, Lisbon_. In that...infinite space..._where others should have come, and seen; where others were...and should have come, and should have saved him. But no one came, no one ever came to save him...and it ate at him_, 'it gnaws...gnaws at us..."'_

Somehow...this feels...personal. A personal _revelation. _Jane's draw, his interest, his willingness to share seem...egoistic. A sharing. A...revelatory action.

_Damn it._

"Ok. I'll have a waffle, but-"

Jane's eyes flirt back to mine.

"Oh, _**that**_ was random. And that's one thing that I love about you, Lisbon. Your randomness. I never know if you're going to smack me or smile, punch me or laugh. And you know what...I think I LIKE that. Gets the heart pumping."

I bite down on the inside portion of my cheek.

_Do not laugh._

_Do not enable him._

"I think you've eaten too many waffles. The sugar is killing your brain cells..."

"_Crêpe_," he amends.

"Whatever. Be as fussy as you want, but just be prepared to sleep in the car and on the plane. You do NOT call shotgun when we get our ride," and I take away the - _surprise, surprise _- Garfield mug, that now is stocked with coffee, instead of tea, and "you do not drink this!," I point to the coffee (_no. definitely not. Jane does NOT need coffee_).

"The last thing I want is you buzzing around on caffeine and sugar, manic and intense. You sleep. Until we get there. Until we get to the residence and can actually go _inside_. I mean it."

His face screws up, slightly.

"Oh I should...sleep? When everyone else is discussing stuff? I'll look like a little kid with a nap time, Lisbon!"

"And that'll be shocking, why?"

He looks a little peevish, but his eyes are bloodshot, and that's not for no reason.

"No arguments, Jane. That was my very first condition. Adequate rest. If this was a high school class, you'd be failing already."

He sighs, borderline-frustration colouring his movements, as he gets off the bed.

"Not so fast. I'll clean up the kitchen... and I need a shower, anyway. I'll be an hour at least."

He sits back down, sighing as I pull back down the comforter.

"Lisbon...I'm not even _tired."_

"I really don't believe you, and I really don't care to argue...so..."

I take the papers out of his fisted hands.

"No reading," I say, trying to recall how Sister Luke sounded when I was in third grade, being scolded.

It always worked to snap me into place.

"I can't believe you're telling me to sleep!"

Scratch high school. Jane wouldn't have budged an inch...even in Catholic school.

"Well, lucky for me, I'm the boss. So I can send you home if I'm worried about you..."

He gives me a complicated look then. The frustration at being effectively stalled, or slowed down, is evident.

But so is something else. Something that almost looks like...

_...relief?_

He falls over near where I'm sitting, his head smooshing into my pillow, face down, hands at his sides.

"Don't be such a belligerant baby; here...c'mon, properly, now..."

It's an uncomfortable angle that he's slumped into, deliberately no doubt, so I lightly swat his head with my hand until he rolls over from belly to back. This time, he settles into a proper position - the back of his head resting against the pillow.

"Good...I don't have to worry about you suffocating while I get my shower, now. That's always a bonus."

"Aww, how sweet. Your concern for my ability not to croak in your bedroom is just so soothing, Teresa..."

I turn, and give him a ZIP IT look, and - miracle of miracles - he does, while I pull the blinds shut. The room is enveloped in darkness once more, save for the aura of a glowing lilac clock.

"Close your eyes and dream about poetry symbolism for all I care..."

"Or _Irish Springs_ dreams?...th'se always...nice," he murmurs drowsily, before sitting up and leaning against one arm, his eyes cracking open a smidgen _while..._

..._while I figure it out..._

He grins.

"_Watch it_, Jane...," I say evenly, trying to look stern.

_Probably failing miserably._

I catch it then: his yawn. Small, squelched, shut down.

_Yeah, right. _

_Not tired._

_Right..._

_

* * *

_

**Jisbon4ever** - oh, Jane certainly FLIRTS with Lisbon. [He seems to get a kick out of it, though. Probably LIKES riling her up]. And their dialogue (esp. his, to hers rather than the other way around), is often...well, definitely UNsibling like - I agree! I just think Simon Baker was probably referring more to the fact that they often do squabble like siblings. (I guess, in some ways, you could just say that they are like an old married couple in that respect, instead. ;))

**Coral Rose** - thank you! :) I like to experiment a lot with my writing. I'm glad you (don't want to say enjoy, given the content)...were open to reading something a little different.

**Bouncerok** - by the end of this chapter, Jane is - indeed - pretty much back to being his (so-called) healthy self. Needed a couple days rest up time. Maybe a little weak/ tired overall. That's the way I'm playing it ;)

**Frogster** - totally! Baloo, yes! I can see it :)

**()** - thanks for reviewing :) I really thought the idea of...a budding plant reaching towards light was sort of an effective image...for some gentle sort of connection. Because Jane is ALSO being reborn in the process, too. (On the show, reaching out and protecting others, esp. Lisbon...DOES seem to be shaping him into a less haunted character; it's almost giving him a chance at a new life, one that doesn't have to end in revenge and bloodshed).

In relation to Jane and how he'd reach out to Lisbon if something similar occurred in canon (which, given his at times brashness and plowing through and making messes etc. etc.)...I do think we'd see a very sensitive, highly empathic man emerge. No doubt about it...he jokes around a lot. But I don't think he'd joke around with something that actually hurt Lisbon. You can TELL he's protective of Lisbon, although she's so closed to sharing anything of herself (mind you, with Jane, and her position...it's all very awkward). But I can still recall the gentleness in his eyes when he was hypnotizing her in the third episode of season 2, and she was in tears. All teasing, all of THAT sort of persona...wiped clean. He was almost timid-gentle.

And staining...to me just seemed apt. Marring, almost. Because you can lighten up a stain, but it almost always creates an 'edge'. And very, very rarely do BAD stains come out of light carpeting. And that's what Jane and Lisbon were...they were lighter characters, insofar as they were innocent. Jane might have been a little bit of a sprite (just look how he was raised!), but there was no real understanding of what evil really lurked out there, I don't think. Not for him. Not before he lost his family. He was aware of how people could be tricked in little ways, but it seemed to be all in this mind-game of how-can-i-pull-the-wool-over-their-eyes? deal. Nothing...malicious.

**Hawklover **- it's interesting that you speak of events (primarily those that shock, really shock...which, unfortunately, are often negative) as being connected to our cellular structure. I was reading a book about cellular memories the other day! It was fascinating. Explained why, IN PART, animals and humans shake when they ARE shocked (apparently, according to the researcher studying cellular structures and how they can 'replay' old wounds (even tapping into stigmata a bit!))...the shaking is a way of discharging negative energy before it can store in the body and create a negative cellular memory/ long term associated problems.

I need to read a lot more on the subject...but I found the IDEA neat.

**MentalistLover **- thank you for reviewing :) Oh, as to HOW Jane will deal with what he's...said and done while feverish...well, a bit of that will be covered in the next chapter. Re: psychic alarms, and obsessiveness...it WOULD be like...sensing...an impending train wreck. Mind you Lisbon will do her best to reign him in...

**Anna** - thanks! A lot of times I write in first person. I am drawn to a very direct style... I like to write as if the characters are thinking out loud, and then write in a fashion that's very...free flow? In University, so much of my essays were so formal (out of necessity), but this is for fun. And I have much more fun playing around with my writing, rather than sticking with what I know, and how I've been 'taught' to write. I also think it's easier to create emotional tension, or strong emotional feelings (whatever they may be) in present tense, and in a first person format. Maybe I'm wrong! My friend (who also used to write fanfic) HATED writing in a format that I readily take to... To each his own :)

Oh, no...Jane doesn't adopt Thea. BUT she will factor in this story quite a bit from the next chapter onwards. There will also be quite a bit of Jane/Thea interaction (although they will be under less than ideal circumstances), and Thea also will feature in some stories later, too. I like her as this...wild-card character. Or wild-card INDUCING, I should say. Because of her similarities to Charlotte Jane, you just know the whole dynamic there is going to be complicated...

**My Beautiful Ending** - hello again! :) Yes, I think Lisbon has a lot that pains her. Just...less of it has been exposed. The show has hinted at stuff. It's fairly...strongly...suggested that she was abused, and certainly neglected after her mother died. The writers, too, did a good job of creating a tougher character who only...slowly warms up enough to relax around people as she gets to know them. The whole...slow-to-warm-up feature would totally make sense if she had had a pretty rotten past, too. And in early season 2, when her shrink mentions that her father was abusive, she doesn't deny anything, simply shifts direction. Evades. Especially when asked, "but he was, wasn't he?" And Lisbon, snarky as ever when pushed: "this coffee tastes like shit." I LOVED that. It was completely in character, for her to comment angrily about coffee not tasting great. To take her anger out on the coffee.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title - Little Stars - Part 11  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: (February 11th, 2011) **I want to quickly apologize for not having updated in so long. Life, simply, got in the way. That, and sickness. Won't get into the nitty gritty details...but ALL the comments, reviews..._**everything**_... were just...wow. Really and truly appreciated. Each one brought a big smile to my face, and cheered me up immensely. This chapter is for all of you who reviewed, and made my day. Thanks again, guys!

* * *

_Little pilgrim,_  
_The Indian's axed your scalp._  
_Your turkey wattle_  
_Carpet rolls_

_Straight from the heart._  
_I step on it,_  
_Clutching my bottle _  
_Of pink fizz. _

_A celebration, this is._  
_Out of a gap_  
_A million soldiers run,_  
**_Redcoats, every one._**

_-_Sylvia Plath, excerpt from "Cut"

* * *

As a leader, I'm expected to check in with those who work under me. I'm expected to dig a little deeper than any other agent when someone under my leadership is displaying signs of inordinate stress, or inner turmoil. Anything like that. I mean, understandably - this job is high risk. Every day we go out and search for rapists, sadists, killers.

The willfully cruel, the sadistic, or the...destroyed, and now the... destroyers. As a general rule...the Serious Crimes Unit isn't focused on understanding why a juvenile stole a can of beer from a convenience store. We don't do..._petty_. We do grisly. We do...haunting. Sickening.

We face evil, as Van Pelt would say. Routinely.

And while I certainly value privacy, and try to give those on my team a certain amount of leeway when it comes to having 'off' days - I can't really turn a blind eye to certain signs. Not in good conscience. Which is, in a sense, the problem right now.

With Jane.

* * *

Jane's head is currently lolling against his seat belt, which is - additionally - cutting into his throat. It's odd - that for such a sensorily sensitive man, he doesn't wake, but turns slightly in sleep until the belt loosens its clutch and falls to rest against his chest, instead. His easy breathing is creating the smallest section of condensed, foggy glass near where he has tucked himself into a slight, pin-stripped bundle.

"Leave him," I whisper at once - and not unkindly - when I see Van Pelt attempt to fix the strap.

"But _boss..._," she starts evenly, quietly, "he looks **so** uncomfortable..."

I try not to snort. No matter how _uncomfortable _Jane's antics make us on every case we've ever had...Grace still can't seem to help herself. She has a never-dwindling need to make things better. Softer. Kinder.

Sweeter.

_'No wonder Rigsby's so smitten...'_

I push the thought away, and face a simple truth: I'm not like that.

Sweet, I mean.

I'm not..._sweet._

I'm protective, at times, sure. In a feisty _'hurt my family, I'll put you down!'_ sort of way.

But I'm not...sweet. I don't know how to do...**sweet.**

Something inhibits me from being like that, like Grace.

Something that feels a lot like fear... if you want to know the truth.

"Boss?," Grace tries again, just as softly interrupting my current asinine train of thoughts.

"He needs his sleep, Grace. And you know how he is...you budge him, he wakes up. He stayed up all night - let's not forget! - with his poetry sites, memorizing Rilke pieces... despite my express warnings that I _wouldn't take him with _us if he couldn't take care of himself...," I stop abruptly, feeling an acrid bout of guilt blossom in my core.

_'He's just...frantic. Frantic to save this little girl.'_

Of course - we are all desperate to find this child.

But my worry, for him, has been...shunted. I simply don't have the time to think and brood about Jane, and his issues, and his pain. Not now. Even though I know his pain is deep. Unfathomably deep.

Instead, I'm forced to shove my own doubts down deep. Deep down under... mock aggravation, as it is. As it needs to be, maybe. Because the alternative is to realize that Jane has gone and made this child a pseudo-emotional replacement for his own daughter. The alternative is to think about how...possibly, maybe just possibly...Patrick Jane is making a deal with a God he doesn't even believe in... to find this little girl.

And as heinous as the reality of child murder_ is_, we all know that this unsub is capable of committing murder without flinching.

We all know that Thea hasn't simply been _abducted._

We all know that there's a string of other bodies... _of other little children_ - each as innocent and worthy of life, of earthly continuance - as the small girl we are now hoping to locate in the next 300something hours.

T minus, 300something hours.

_And that time will go by a lot faster than you think..._

The fact that Dorothea Castleton looks so much like Jane's own lost-and-dead daughter is just one profoundly distracting addition to this whole... mess.

_'If he kills her...you know what could happen...'_

_'You know what this could do to him...'_

My eyes lock onto Jane, then. Lock onto the blue casted marks - now almost black - shading the slight hollows beneath his eyes. His somewhat cracked lips. The slightly damp look of curls forming a golden blond halo along his skull.

_'His psyche has already been... violated.'_

His face, his chest...is sweaty. The clothes he's wearing...are tainted with his sweat.

And is it my imagination, or does he look..._thinner?_ The lines of his jaw, his shoulders and the hollows under his eyes...more pronounced than ever before?

_'He has been sick. Very sick...'_

"Just...don't wake him up," I say, finally caving.

Grace gives me a half smile, a slight whispered, "Does he even _NEED _the belt? I mean...on this stretch? We're barely moving, boss."

And it's true.

We are inching along this course of highway. One of a multitude of jam-packed cars that -_ from the sky _- probably resemble tin pez pieces creeping along an indeterminantly long mouth of asphalt.

_'I wonder who we are feeding...?'_

The rat race. That's what it is.

Race, race, race, work, work, eat, sleep, **die.**

_Sometimes it seems so...futile. Doesn't it? Doesn't it, Tereeesa?_

_Meaningless?_

I shake this new - _and unwanted _- acedia away, and turn back to my youngest agent.

"If you see a cop car, wake him up and get that belt back on him."

Grace just nods as she completely unbuckles the belt and releases Jane from its hold. Edging him gently down into her lap, I can't help but notice the compassion and profound protectiveness barely hidden in her features.

Remarkably, Jane doesn't stir as she mashes her coat into a makeshift pillow.

"He's really out of it," Cho remarks from his shotgun position.

I nod, still feeling the last tendrilled hold of exasperation twine itself around my brain. I don't want to be..._concerned_. I want to be in a familiar place. I want to be...exasperated with him. I don't want to feel this worry. I don't want to feel like **this. **So...unsure. This stalking anxiety, this dread.

_Not about him._

"He looks so... _tired_."

Rigsby, too, is concerned.

"He is," Grace adds a moment later, "he must be, right? I mean...can you imagine? Can you even-?"

"No," I interrupt.

My mouth tastes sour, and I suddenly find all her sweetness and all this talking _all too cloying_. **All too much.**

I'm barely relieved to realize that I'm not the only one feeling this weight in the air... this heat and pressure in our little tin-can car.

* * *

Bellesview Motor Lodge looms out on a shady expanse of parking lot.

Which says something, as the general locale is rather barren. [The rest of our environment is black coated asphalt, crispy hot and smoking under the furnace of the sun.]

Of course, there's the standard smattering of palm trees that dot the highway leading to our turn off, and then - the motor lodge, which thankfully enough has been situated amongst various and sundry So-Cal plant life. Enough So-Cal plant life to cast a slightly cooling aura and shadow over our sleeping quarters. Which is a small kindness it and of itself. For a kid from Chicago, I never properly acclimatized to this heat. The cold, I can deal with. The heat... can feel suffocating and gripping. And on a case like this, when tensions are already so high, and the victim is already so innocent - the heat can make you feel almost...claustrophobic. Caught in a pressure-cooker. Caught in some wasteland.

Some grey expanse of hell, where a little girl can be executed and found amongst beetles and greenery, a beating sun, a rotting waif of a child with ringlets and almond eyes. Heat and gasping breaths, and eternal repose.

And Jane...to see that: to see that little pink-frocked girl, with her white doll skin and a clean expanse of pale...

Because there certainly will be no blood, if there's a body. There certainly will be no...overt suffering.

Not like what he found with his own child.

Who died in a pool of red.

No, in some ways...the whole case with be so much more...damnably untouchable. Just the sordid realization that the authorities were five...maybe six hours too late to save the last one. To save the last child, whose small heart seized and struggled and failed. Whose body went unfathomably cold in a world teeming with life. All sort of miserable life.

I stare back over to my friend, stare back at him, at Jane.

His face is ashen, and (I hate to even think it!) but almost pretty in its muted shades of blue, its casts of purple. His eyes are the darkest part of him, and his lips look translucent.

_'You should have taken him to the hospital...'_

He's been up in that creepy, dusty and possibly mold-infected attic for who knows how long now?

What sort of friend have I been...to let him stay up there? Sleep up there? To not demand...before now...that he take better care of himself?

**_What sort of person does that make me?_**

* * *

I'm suddenly bombarded with memories of old 1980's commercials for _Land's End _gear, a rainy day, a small child.

Suddenly, there **I am:**

10 years old, raven locks braided back into two mint-green hair ties, with corded laces acting as a tom-boy version of ribbons. Yellow and brown stripped socks stretch to my knees (which are knobbly and bruised by sport, and not by Dad. Not yet).

I'm wearing...brown acrylic shorts that barely come mid-thigh, my form still lean and elongated: untouched yet by puberty, and all the grievances that come with growing up. At 10, I'm still trapped in a strange land between kid and self-proclaimed "woman", and I haphazardly pick at flecks of drying glue on my hand, relishing the feel as I pull off the dried strands from my fingertips.

My mother rocks Thomas - just three months old - and asks me to turn down the television.

_"Eee-yor!," Gabbie claps at me, tumbling into the living room... _

_(awake from his nap)_

_and breaking my concentration by scattering the small pile of accumulated dried glue. _

_I sigh and shoot him a look of annoyance before my heart warms up just a little. _

_Just a scanty bit. _

_He is, after all, a tottering nuisance. _

_23 lbs of child-bulk...who is always plopping down into my lap..._

_...sagging into my knee._

_"You need your diaper changed," I grumble, irritated. _

_(Apparently, I was out of diapers by 16 months. No lie.)_

_(I walked, and a couple months later: voila!) _

_And given that Gabbie is more or less "my responsibility"..._

_... now that our mother is tending to the newest Lisbon..._

_the sooner Tigger is out of Huggies, the better._

**_For me._**

_"Noooope. Good. They good. GOOD," Gabriel informs me seriously, patting his lap just like he pats everything. _

_Just like he pats the door, the plants, our cat._

**_Pat, pat, pat._**

_"You stink," I grumble, before taking another sip of zero-calorie cola..._

_ ignoring the semi-reproachful scolding of our mother..._

_...telling me to " 'be nice.' "_

**_Be nice? _**

_Of course I'm nice._

_When am I ever **not** nice to Gabbie? _

_"Can we go pool, yeah? I wanna go swim!," Gabriel babbles at me now..._

_... in his pidgin toddler English. _

_His blond hair is messy as he bobs his head..._

_... his blue eyes lighting up with intensity._

_"That's not a POOL, twerp. That's a LAKE."_

_My hands are dusted in a god awful electric yellow-orange. _

_My diet, at 10, was comprised largely of Cheetos and diet Coke..._

_...my mum's newest addiction, replacing Tab. _

_(Sometimes pepperoni pizza when my little brother, James, had his way. _

_"Peeeza, peeeeza!," he'd cry at six._

_ while my Dad stuck to his familiar stand-bys: _

_Hungry Man Steak dinners with mushroom gravy,_

_his cheap serving of cherry cobbler,_

_ that pathetic two tablespoons of broken up yellow corn that he never touched. _

_And __Gabbie would peck away at Honey Nut Cheerios (almost exclusively), _

_sometimes squishing mozzarella cheese in between the oblate pieces. _

_My mother usually stuck to salads and berries..._

_a perpetual picky eater, only venturing out of this routine when my brothers were small..._

_...and she had to breast feed.)_

_My Tigger just continues to pat my knee with sympathy. _

_"Pool? Yeah? We go?"_

_I growl into the darkness of the tv room, into the flickering stream of my program, the credits rolling now..._

**_...the dusk of night rapidly approaching._**

_Pat, pat, pat. _

_Rounded chubby fingers - more baby still than child at that age - tapping away as the commercial ends and something else starts up._

_"Fraggle Rock!," Gabriel squeaks suddenly, his small pert nose coming right up into my line of sight. _

_His two year old mouth forming an O in excitement. _

_"Wimbly, Red, Wimblyredred!," he hoots, almost incoherently before propping himself up on my shoulders..._

_... orienting himself on his blasted flat, fat feet. _

_Two seconds later, he's scrambling off to look for his dolls..._

_...then racing back into the living room with his stuffed Wimbly, plopping back down._

_ Clapping when the Fraggles clap, mumbling in baby-speak: _

_"worry nutter daaaay," off-key_

_and cheering when the Doozers (his favorite) finally come on the screen._

_How such a small boy can make...so much noise is beyond me._

_"_Shut up, Gabbie!_ Why do you always have to be such a **PAIN**?"_

_He gives me a soft, tentative smile. Almost pained. _

_Then caves into my lap, clipping my side with the cuff of his Osh-Kosh B'gosh overalls, _

_wrapping my lean arms around his much smaller, _

_much pudgier ones._

_"Hug, hug, hug," he rambles, again with the idiotic toddler babbling. _

_Caught in that odd age - a lean 22 months - _

_and caught between being a rather verbose kid, _

_and a rather aggravating baby-nuisance. _

_His personality is already presenting itself, and I can see the emergence of the child within: _

_extraordinarily warm (for a Lisbon), alert, keen, watchful, prone to long periods of cheer, and deep periods of pained quietude._

_Before too long, he's giggling into my side, and a small rivulet of warm drool is dabbing my gym jersey. _

_I wipe it away with a scowl, but rock him like I rock Tommy..._

_*back and forth, back and forth*_

_I'm not SWEET. _

**But I do love him.**

* * *

The building itself is rather plain. A grey box-like snake of identical semi connected 'lodges.' A fancier name than what presents, truthfully. After all, when most people envision a lodge...I bet they are probably thinking of some construction that is rugged, or proud. Some architectural ensemble that is steeped amongst mountains or equally splendid vistas.

* * *

I pass a report sheet to Rigsby, not trusting Cho to fully reign Jane in, and not wanting Grace (who, again - _is _sweet) to have to deal with Jane's trickery.

"Three rooms if you can manage it," I wave tiredly, while Rigsby snorts at the budget sheets - an incredulous _'are you kidding me?'_ poised on his face.

I answer his wordless query with a resounding, impatient sigh. "Okay, two bedrooms - I'm sure they can drag in a cot for Jane."

Cho gives me a slight gaze, his eyes Buddha-calm, his tone as impassive as always.

Impassive, rather, if you don't know the man very well.

"So - you two get one room?," he points to Van Pelt, then myself. "And I have to share with Rigsby AND him?," Cho gripes, not _exactly_ petulantly.

Rigsby is half way across the lot now, unaware of the current discussion, and Grace is clever enough not to comment.

"And that would be a problem..._why_?," I try again, evenly.

Cho expells the slightest amount of breath. I almost miss it.

"Rigsby snores and Jane sometimes _c_-"

And just like that, he's done talking: his eyes trained on our consultant, whose exhalations are now peppering our car in slight, nasal beats.

_Dead to the world._

"_Hmm? _Got something you'd like to share with the class or not?"

"Jane...doesn't sleep," Cho tries again, a little more constrained this time.

I can see Rigsby from the motel office - waving us over to our appropriate spot for our rental.

"He's going to get some sleep - count on it. And we..._you, Grace, me _- we are getting some coffee, and then we're heading to the Castleton house..."

"Jane's not going to...just let us_ do _that," Grace tries - her voice nervous and barely breaking through the surface into consciousness.

My hands stop their light tapping against the wheel, and I hold back a snort.

"Oh yeah? What's he going to do? He can lay on all the charm he wants. He's sleeping. At least for a few hours. End of discussion."

Cho just nod a nod that is almost... dull. Perfunctory. He really doesn't look like he's buying my assertion at all.

Grace remains mute.

* * *

"Hey Mr. Snoozey...I can't quite carry you," Rigsby says softly as he shakes Jane lightly.

"Jus'a sec," Jane mumbles into his jacket collar.

Jane's still out.

Like a four year old, fist tucked under his chin and everything.

"Should I try?," Rigsby asks me honestly, and I quell my laughter.

"I wouldn't," I smirk, and a little louder, "_**Jane! **_- Risgby has a room for you guys. And a cot _just for you_. Just like the good ole' CBI. You'll be right at home."

The din has finally stirred him, and he pops up woozily, his hair a mishmash of curls.

"Are we there? I mean, at the Castleton's?," and he's suddenly grasping for his internet copies of Rilke, his German poetry analysis pages and translation sheets - the whole kit and kaboodle.

"Uh uh...no way. We agreed - sleep, for you. Now. I'll have Rigsby drive you over later once you get a little more sleep."

His eyes are fully open now, fully aware - and he's fixing me with his classic _I'm gonna do what I need to do _stare.

"Jane, don't give me that look. Priorities. _We agreed_. You get 8 hours of sleep per night, and eat minimally two meals a day, or I'm not letting you go to any scenes, or talk to any witnesses. In fact, I won't let you stay on this case."

He blinks, still dulled by fatigue, but his mouth parts into a barely constrained sneer.

"I could** so** get around that," and a yawn takes him by surprise. "I just need some coffee. Did I hear you say we were going for coffee?," he tries again, his features schooled now into something less...combative. More whimsical, more charismatic. More classic Patrick Jane.

Rigsby's still waiting by the car - looking apologetic.

"It's your own FAULT," I say more forcefully this time, wanting my team to snap into position. I mean, with Jane - we have to show a united front, or he'll chip away - little by little - until he gets what he wants. "You should have gone to bed. Last night. You're NOT going to make the right connections like this..."

"Lisbon - I make connections ALL the time! My synaptical connections are in _top working order_! And I never get that much sleep, so..."

"Yeah right. Top working order. With no sleep."

He waves a dismissive hand. "_Bah._ I get a lot of choline in my diet. I eat a lot of eggs."

Rigsby looks confused, Grace blinks, and Cho bites down a semi-half concealed grin.

**_Damn it._**

**_We are not doing this._**

**_Not on this case._**

"This is NON negotiable," I try again, my voice now holding an edge.

Jane lifts his hands up in a melodramatic _'okay, don't shoot!'_ gesture, and I feel my habitual eye-roll finally reach fulfillment.

"Make sure he sleeps, Rigsby. Another three hours. Minimally. If he does that - then get in touch with us, and call The Yellow Taxi Cab company for a lift," I pass copies of our basic file contact sheets amongst the team, sans Jane, of course.

"We'll be at one of these places...just call my cell."

I can't help but catch Rigsby, alarmingly enough, eyeing the papers as if they are gold and Jane...as if Jane is some sort of trickster. Or...some sort of pirate. Ready to snatch the papers, the folders.

"And what should I do?," Rigsby asks then, his eyes dancing nervously between Jane's and my own.

"Your job is to read or...I don't know...read over Jane's print outs, the case files, anything... for the next three hours," I repeat, knowing - somehow, for some reason, Jane will try his best to twist my agents' arm, "but mostly...make sure he**_ sleeps_**."

"Uhh, okay boss..."

I hear Jane mumble something about how he's _in the car _and how _the sound of rustling paper is definitely going to keep him awake** now**_.

___

* * *

_

**A/N: **shorter, I know. But this much was more or less kicking around, and I thought you guys might prefer a modest update rather than none at all. I have a tentative new goal to type out roughly 1,000 words per day or so, from here on out. That should ensure a slightly more normal...update time. Again, I'm sorry for the long, long delays between updates.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title - Little Stars - Part 12  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **oh _wow_. The time between updates has been tremendous, and I want to sincerely apologize for not getting a chapter updated in so long. (I hadn't realized it had been THIS long, until I checked my previous notes). Life can just build up sometimes, and my 'fun activity' projects have been pushed to the bottom of my to-do list for quite awhile now.

But when I realized I hadn't updated anything for this story in literally _months_...I felt a little guilty. I admit it.

Additionally, I am moving soon and wanted to get a couple chapters updated for all my WIP's before everything is in boxes. I also am training for a half marathon (in January I was hoping to train for a full marathon but my doctor was adverse to the idea). I've also been branching out and doing more self-help and other-help projects lately. But I won't get into all that right now. Because I feel badly all the same...for all the posts and comments sent my way that I never really got around to responding to...(blargh. _bad me_.). So yeah...thank you, guys! So many of the comments made me... :D!

**Very quickly:** this chapter is potentially...riddled with spelling errors. My spell check was not, I repeat - NOT - working. For whatever reason. And I'm an atrocious speller by nature. So you've been warned.

* * *

_Again and again, however we know the landscape of love  
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,  
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others fall: _

_again and again the two of us walk out together  
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again  
among the flowers, face to face with the sky. _

- Rainer Maria Rilke, "Again and Again"

* * *

At 5:15 - on the dot - I get a call. I feel about for my cell phone (which is set to vibrate)... sensing it before I hear it as it hisses along my pant leg in agitation. A vaguely familiar tune trills through the air a second later:_You've Got a Friend in Me. _The theme from Toy Story, I dimly recall. One of the police officers on the landing looks up at me, and gives me an amused grin as I try not to groan.

"Aww, well ain't tha sweet?" he responds in a Texan drawl, obviously a transfer, and chuckling not unkindly.

"Yeah, _sweet_. One of my team members thinks it's terribly _sweet _to amuse me with never-ending practical jokes," I start, but stall as the man grins even more fully then.

I give him a closed mouth smile in response, before turning around to catch the name on the caller ID.

_'Rigsby, Wayne'_

I hit talk.

"Did he sleep?," I ask, by way of introduction.

A hesitant glitchy intake, then a rushed, "Yeah. Yeah, he did boss."

A note of guilt has entwined itself around Rigsby's voice. Immediately I'm suspicious.

"Did he _really_ sleep, or did he pester you to read file notes until you caved and tuned out to ESPN?"

"No...boss, c'mon! He slept!"

"_He did._ Jane actually fell asleep?"

Because that's just oh-so likely.

_Riiight._

"Well...s_omewhat_."

I'm not feeling solid enough to deal with a manic Jane. Not right now. Not in _this_ house. It's hard to put into words what I'm feeling right now, as I walk throughout the Castleton home. It's difficult to properly transmit the quality of my current anxiety. I mean, the place looks more or less undisturbed. The kitchen is sunny, and richly decorated, though a twang of something resembling chlorox bleach still lingers in the air; given the particular fastidiousness of the living room and entry way, I'm suspecting that has less to do with any crime scene clean up disinfectant, and more to do with the particular nature of the Castleton's in general. Well...more to do with _Mr. Castleton's_ demands of how a good house keeper should tend a home, in particular.

But all things considered, nothing jumps out as screaming _crime scene! _in huge neon letters. Stiffling, undoubtedly, though that may stem more from the sense that the home really wasn't lived in. Not in the classic way that you'd expect a home with small children to have been used, or feel. There's no mucky footprints or lowered coat hooks. No lingering toys spewn about by the foyer, nor cartoon dvd's in the family room.

The kitchen merely reveals more of the same: spotless metallic countertops, almost harsh in their clinical gleam. No kiddie cereal in the cabinets, no first grade portraits on the walls. No alphabet magnets for the fridge, or dishes with Disney characters. And that's not to say the space is barren, because it certainly has personal touches, although none of the decorating seemed tailored towards the smallest family member.

In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find any evidence that the Castleton's had such a young daughter. Except, possibly, for Thea's bedroom herself, though I have yet to take in that particular space.

Really, though: there is a notable absence of anything that would show even the slightest interest in children. So much so that I can't help but wonder how relatives or friends could have overlooked something so achingly strange. And that's just the feeling I get from the decor alone; nevermind the fact that this house seemed not quite lived in, by any one. Of any age. You could have told me that a family of mannequins lived here, with the space being a perpetually pin-neat tidy setyp for an Ikea photo shoot, and I would have believed that quite readily.

All the same... '_stiffling'_ and _'perfectly ordered'_ is a far cry from perverse. It's still a far cry from incest, or the types of crimes that I know have taken place within these walls. And it has **nothing** on murder. Nothing on the type of remnant discord that I extracted from the forensic photographs of the master bedroom. That blood seepage on the carpets, the bedding. The jet spray of arterial blood against egg-shell white walls, or the lingering red of dried blood all over the fancy dancy teak bed posts.

Pushing those images out of my mind, I finally enter Dorothea's room as Rigsby drills me for a response.

"_Boss?_ So, are you still at the Castleton's? Should we meet up with you there?"

I squint against a sudden ray of near-blinding sun and give a questioning look to the senior police lead, who nods in understanding.

"Forensics have cleared it. Go ahead," the Captain mutters to me from his perched position on the staircase.

I cross towards the window to draw down the pink venetian blinds in Thea's room. Suddenly I can see everything much more clearly in its flower-garden schema of pastel pinks, yellows, purples, whites.

_She definitely wasn't allowed to be a tomboy. This is the type of room I would have hated as a child..._

"Boss? So can we?"

"Yes. Alright, _yes_."

I hear Jane garble something smart-assed in the background, nearly drowning out Rigsby in the process.

"Be there in 5," Rigsby starts in anxiously, increasing his volume (I suspect) to mute out Jane.

"_5 minutes_?," I clarify, "Where are you guys now? The house is a good...20 minutes from the hotel. At least."

"Fuel. We're at Fuel Coffee, on Freston Street? Jane was still a little tired so we stopped here for Espressos."

Fuel Coffee doubles as an internet cafe. Everyone knows that. I close my eyes, and will my temper into something workable, reasonable._._

"_Espressos,"_ I mutter glumly when I hear the faint pertness of a female voice capturing their order in the background, "Oh well, that's _wonderful_ Rigsby. That's just what Jane needs. Caffeine. And how long have you guys been downing coffees, anyway?"

"Uhh, he just wanted to check out this site really quickly-"

I force myself to unclench my jaw.

"Is it so hard to hold to one, basic agreement? Agreed upon to maintain some basic continuance of...health? For him?"

My agent, smartly, doesn't respond. Nor do I hear the flippant or amused ramblings of our _man-of-the-hour._

_Because Janes' antics are certainly doing nothing for **my** health, if the gnawing pain beneath my ribcage is any indication..._

"Put him on the phone."

"Huh?"

"Put Jane on the phone, Rigsby."

I hear a muttered _'sure'_, followed by a faint but detectable, _'well, I did!'_ (Jane, at his argumentative best, I'm sure).

But then Jane takes the phone, and radically shifts the timber and quality of his voice into something almost chipper.

"Hey there, Teresa. I was just thinking about you! Can I bring you anything? A latte, perhaps? Or a mocha? A caffè _mocha?_ Fuel only makes the _best caffè mocha drinks anywhere_, and I don't even like-"

_As if the man ever drank coffee before this weekend, anyway..._

"Jane! Stop. _Seriously?_ That's your plan? How many days do you think you can operate on coffee alone, sleep be damned?"

"I _did_ sleep. Didn't Rigsby tell you I slept?"

Jane's voice holds the mock-patient resolve of a man who is willing to do _everything in his power to get what he wants_. For a second, I almost doubt that I heard the more spastic, nervous indignance of his earlier retort.

"Yes Jane. He did. You know he did, so quit wasting my time. I'm just not buying it. Especially since you are, currently, not at the hotel - but are, _coincidentally, I'm sure_ - at a net cafe..."

A sigh. Soft, and quickly tempered.

"So _Rigsby's_ lying now, too?"

I shut my eyes and press against my temples with my fingertips as I hear the falsetto voice of the all-too enthusiastic barista ask Jane for $12 and something-cents. An all too excessive amount of money for a couple coffees, if you want my opinion. A moment later, I hear the register ding open and Jane begin his mellow chattering amidst soft laughter.

_No doubt flirting away for extra espresso shots..._

"Jane?," I start again, bringing him back to our discussion, "You know exactly how you're playing us. Stop it."

Hearing a car door slam a second later, an engine start, I try to make out his next words as Rigsby mutters something about his beverage being 'too hot_'._

"If you were just going to say no from the get go, why'd you even ask me to wait at the hotel in the first place, Lisbon? Why ask me to do something, and then not believe me when I say that I've done it?"

"Firstly, I didn't ask you to _wait_ at the hotel, Jane. I asked you to sleep. Big difference."

"I **_did_** sleep," he reinstates, his voice now holding an edge of something almost aggressive, before he pulls backs. Stops. Reevaluates his tone.

_Smart man._

"Well...not, like...sleep-sleep," he finally admits - although with no real guilt, "But I did shut my eyes and _tried_ to sleep. I promise you that!"

I can hear the tense, unvoiced _'that's got to count for something!'_ right under the surface, and sense that between my concern and his burgeoning resolve to start in on this case, neither of us will be able to do much of anything until we reach some sort of compromise.

"You _actually_ listened?"

A whistled exhalation, then.

Hurt sounding, almost.

"I did. I listened. I _actually listened_, Lisbon."

My eyes continue to scan Dorothea's room as Jane natters on. For a moment I almost lose him to the swelling emotions as I take in the room. As I'm attacked with a piteous feeling of dread for this child, who has been subjected - _somehow_ - to a life both simultaneously spoiled and deprived.

The room surrounding me is rich and plush, to be sure.

Certainly at first appraisal.

It's the type of smarmy little girls' bedroom that you'd see in some fashion shot for the model perfect kid.

But with only a little more diligence and time spent actually _looking_... the whole aura of the space quickly changes.

Quickly dissolves into something almost barren.

You start to sense how lacking in natural warmth this entire setup _is_. What's more, the room - so superficially fashioned for a child - has an almost sinister feel to it compared to the kitchen and living rooms. Whereas those spaces were obviously tended to and used by adults, this small sector of the home should have emitted some sort of carefree quality.

"Ok, I'm tired, fine, _yes_," Jane continues, "But here's the clencher, and the thing you have got to keep in mind: I'm_ overtired._ Which means I'm not going to sleep now for anything in the world. Even for you. I couldn't even if I wanted to. You and I both know it. In fact, I'm pretty sure someone could pump me_ full of sleeping pills right now, and I'd probably be just as wired in the morning_...," he admits under his breath, a note of self-deprecation regarding his long-term sleep problems coming to the fore.

"_Okay_, Jane," I huff, somewhat sympathetic. Because even if he's tired, he's been a father and he's had a daughter. A daughter he loved (_loves? with Jane it's hard to tell if her thinks about his child in a present tense. If he's ever let her go..._)... more than life itself, perhaps.

And for all the indulgences that one could imagine being foisted upon any daughter, or child, of Patrick Jane, I know he's going to pick up on the unnerving qualities of this space immediately. I know he'll be able to articulate _exactly_ what I can't. Voice exactly what is so strikingly wrong here.

I shake my head to clear away the prickly coldness which has started to descend along my spine, and instead try to focus once more on Jane.

"...whereas, if you let me come and work the case with you right now, I'll probably tucker myself out by midnight and sleep like an infant tonight, so it's really like a win-win for us both, Lisbon."

I bite back a snappy comment, only letting a toned down, _"not with espresso coursing through your blood stream..."_ pass, because the truth is... I'm quickly becoming resigned.

I'm quickly becoming drained by each passing moment spent in the brittleness of Dorothea's room.

A room with more gloss than substance.

Additionally, I find the task of going through this small space downright...spooky. The sooner I can get out of this house, the better I'll feel. The better I'll be able to think, and concentrate, and get started on actually doing something about finding this child. Working the case.

"_Come on._ Deal's a deal, Lisbon."

And all things considered, if anyone else on the team were pushing themselves to work this case - to get it resolved - I'd just shut up and give them free reign. Even if they slept for a month after it wrapped, I'd consider it a small price to pay if we could bring this child back alive. Yet, somehow, I find it difficult to treat Jane in a similar fashion. To be equally hands-off, or resigned when it comes to him, his health.

"Lisbon? I think we're getting close to the house. I can see the cruiser in the lot. Are you in Dorothea's room? Top floor?"

"Fine. Alright. _Fine._ But early to bed with you. And early doesn't equal _midnight_, Jane."

I let my eyes travel over the rose print duvet as I hear him scoff.

"What am I? _5_?"

"Something like that, I think. I'm serious though. Serious. You'll just get sick again if you don't make a bit more of an effort to take care of yourself._"_

He mutters something that sounds, potentially, promising and I sigh, giving it up, before I remember something else of importance.

"Oh...and one more thing Jane. One more _teensy little thing_. Leave my damn phone alone."

He's quiet for a moment before I hear an amused chuckle on the other end of the line. It does nothing to help my mood.

"But I found the perfect song for everyone!"

"'Everyone'?," I reiterate, dully.

"Yeah! Just you wait until you hear Cho's! I know you're gonna laugh, Lisbon."

I can _oh-too-well_ see that damnable smile now. His so-called charmingly _best _grin probably swallowing up half his face in glee.

"You...changed the ring tunes for all my _contacts_?," I hiss, suddenly not-so amused.

"Well. Just people I know, of course. Had to make the songs fit. Otherwise, where would be the sense in that? And I couldn't do that with _strangers_," he starts, by infuriating way of explaination. "Although, I gotta say Liss, I really have to say..."

_Liss? Is this his warped idea for a nickname?_

"I was just so touched that I was number _one_ on your speed dial. That really was so... heartwarming. It made my whole day, you have no idea."

In the background, I can hear Rigsby start to laugh.

Oh _nevermind_.

"Last warning: _leave my phone alone_, Jane. Before I lodge it in your skull," I growl.

"Roger that, Cappy," Jane quips, before I hear the ignition turn off.

And he ends the call before I can say anything else.

It's probably for the best.

* * *

A gentle rasp of knuckles against the walnut door, and I turn to take in my consultant: his features shadowed with obvious sleep deprivation. He really doesn't look any more rested than he did five hours previously, which is disconcerting. Because even though I've seen him tromp around in bedragled clothes with mused hair plenty of times, the pronounced and sudden _whiteness_ tinging his skin is hard to ignore.

"_What?,"_ he frowns, looking all at once self-conscious.

"You still look sick. Ok? So try. Try not to run yourself into the ground, please. Don't make me worry about you."

He shuts his eyes, looking caught, torn, before he passes me a large brown take-out cup with a paper coffee sleeve blotting out the words: _FUEL COFFEE. Fuel Your Day_.

"I need you on this case, Jane. But I need to be present, too. And I can't be present, mentally present, if I'm focused entirely on you."

His eyes soften then. Fully and suddenly. Two full moons.

Bright.

"Entirely on me, huh?," he grins.

"Not _entirely. _But I can't afford to be focused on you at _all_ right now," I quickly retract, muttering a_ thank you_ as I take the beverage.

"Uh huh," he continues to smile as if he can't help himself.

I release a small pent up breath. And then another when I see that his earlier frown has settled into something almost..._touched_.

"You didn't have to get me anything," I half-smile at the beverage, wanting to change the subject to something familiar. Something safe.

"I got you one with a couple hazelnut shots - you like hazelnut, right? And soy milk. I know lactose hurts your tummy," Jane starts, as if reading my mind, while I attempt to read the messy black writing on the side of the coffee cup. There's a lot of markings.

I take a sip, hesitantly.

"Sweet," I drawl.

Jane rolls his eyes. "I know, I know, don't worry. _Splenda_. I had the lady use the sugar free stuff, Lisbon. Though I don't really see where your concern stems from... You could use a few extra pounds, I think."

I shift awkwardly then, all at once feeling heavily studied, before he nods again with certainty.

"Yeah, you could...an extra five would be ideal..."

"_Anyway_...," I clear away the tension in my throat with a rattled cough, "Can we talk about this case and not my weight, please? What do you think? Poor little rich girl, or what?"

Jane gives me a slight grin, before turning to survey the scene before him.

His expression of amusement quickly morphs into a gaze of such profound sadness that it takes everything in me not to reach out for him, for his hand.

"It's..._oppressive_, yes."

Dorothea's bed is all lace and gilded edges, compulsively neat, and completely lacking in any real aura of childhood. The room itself does not contain toys, save for the numerous porcelain dolls that stand around from various perched locations.

And even those have been elevated to the highest shelves of several glassed-in display cases.

"Those are obviously just for show," Jane mutters, gesturing to the expensive looking (and unnervingly realistic) china children trapped beneath the glass.

"From what I can see, there's not even a pack of crayons and a colouring book laying about...," I add in frustration.

Jane nods, his mood having turned solemn in record time. "No, I don't think _play_ was a word in Thea's vocabulary."

"Do you think it's just because we had the knowledge beforehand...that she was hurt? I mean, I have no idea if I'd be feeling..._this degree of_..."

"No, Lisbon. It_ feels_ wrong because it is wrong. It's artificial. I mean...some girls _are_ girly, sure. But** this** isn't _that_. This is all...cold. Sterile, almost. So yeah, I get it. I feel it too. And I'd feel it even if I hadn't known about her father. About what he did."

We survey the contents of the walk-in closet together. It reveals excessively ruffled dresses affixed to purple ribbon sashed hangers, several black and pink leotards, a few hand knit sweaters, and a couple less girly jean skirts.

No pants.

No striped t-shirts.

Nothing a child could really run around in and get grungy or grass stained without being admonished.

_Or worse._

"How do we begin to learn who this child was, then? I mean-"

"_Is._ 'Who this child **is**', Lisbon. If we start talking about Thea in the past tense, we're screwed."

"_**Is**_," I begin again, before Jane can get too worked up. Before he can assert that I'm talking about this child like she's dead already.

Which, in a sense, I am.

Probably to distance myself as much as possible from the all too-possible end game scenario.

Because cases involving children are typically the worst. And cases with dead children? Definitely so.

"How do we begin to get a sense of who this child is? What she likes, her personality, her fears? How do we extract clues, signs...when this room is so obviously _not_ her? Not _any_ child, I mean?"

I'm almost about to speak again, when Jane mutters, "well our kidnapper felt enough and saw enough to piece it together. So if _he_ knew enough, with probably far fewer visual clues to work with...I'd say we should be able to play catch up. I mean, she may have vocalized something to him. Sure. But I think we'll find a little bit of Thea stashed around here somewhere. Children can be more resilient than we cou-"

He stops mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly hawk-like intense as he studies the just-out-of-the-box primness of a couple Cabbage Patch dolls that line the ruffled bed.

A little girl Cabbage Patch Kid, and a smaller baby Cabbage Patch, both sit flush against intricate crocheted pillows. Actually... the baby doll is tucked_ under_ the blankets, as if set down to rest for a nap.

Jane smiles slightly, before he walks over to the bed, crouches down low to study the stuffed character that Dorothea has half hidden under the sheets.

"Like _here_," and he whispers to the baby Cabbage Patch doll, outfitted in an ornate hand sewn jumper and matching green and blue hat set.

"She likes these dolls best. Especially the baby doll. Thea is protective. She... likes babies, cause they can never hurt her. But more than that...they are undamaged people, and she knows it. And she likes animals. Anything that she sees as being voiceless, but innocent. She identifies with them, in part, but also...senses their inability to hurt _her_. She can tame them, without controlling them. And she can love them back. Fully. Without constraint. She can love them whole heartedly. And not have any part of that love feel wrong. Feel...bad."

I catch myself gazing along the enclosed glass cabinets... trying to look and see as Jane looks and sees.

And catching sight of the porcelain dolls with their muted expressions and vacant eyes, blue-white skin...well, I can see his point. So very little in this room could console a child. Certainly not the black and white art prints, the cool colours of the walls and linens: all so very pretty but... anemic. Washed out and drowsy.

"There's nothing to do with animals in this room, Jane," I test, spurring him for more.

He smirks, points back to the bed.

"Oh but there _is._ Of course it's hidden, to be sure. Thea had to hide herself away if she wanted to preserve herself. But this baby doll here? This was her favourite. Actually, more precisely, she didn't play favourites. She was too...sensitive... for that. But the other dolls weren't really_ real_. Not to her. Not in the way that a doll is real to a little girl."

"Only little girls, hey? Little boys can't have dolls? Now whose being sexist?"

Jane's mouth quips into a smirk.

"We don't have _dolls_, Lisbon. We boys have _stuffed animals_," he asserts with feigned seriousness while my brain impishly throws an image of a possible toddler at me.

Of a very particular toddler, actually.

Of Jane - little Patrick Jane as a two year old, a three year old... with cherubic curls, smiley eyes, dressed up in overalls and some handknitted blue sweater. Grasping onto a red outfitted teddy bear. A courderoy styled bear, maybe. Talking to the stuffed critter in imaginative play. Talking, then 'listening' to the stuffed bears' response, before laughing that contagious whooping laugh of a male preschooler.

I push the thought away, somewhat alarmed by how easily Jane impedes my thoughts.

At such a time it is completely... irrelevant.

_And unprofessional._

"She thought of the baby like she thought of an animal, really," Jane states, studying me for a moment, before looking away. "Voiceless and innocent but capable of offering her love. The little girl doll - this one _here_ - she probably didn't even name. Because it was too...personal. Too close, to herself. And naming this one would make it all too real. What was happening. What they could see, going on in this room. Thea didn't want that. She wouldn't want that sort of life...even for a doll."

"Then...what about the baby?"

"The baby was a _baby_, Lisbon. Too little to understand, in Thea's mind. You can confide in a baby, or a stuffed animal, because you know they don't really understand."

I suddenly feel dull and hazy, and vaguely creeped out by his words.

As if I am his confessor.

As if there is something too painful here to vocalize, for himself. In this space. So I watch him, and I try not to stare. I try not to give him the sense that I _know_. That I know something. Something that is lingering about him, _around him_... even without the assuredness of a _name_ for what is stirring up such fresh anxiety, now.

But for the last few days, something has felt...off. Something has seemed _wrong._ In little words and expressions and actions... I've felt it. And, he can deny it all he wants... but I can sense the basic, outlying shape of something dreadful emerging. It's a sensation I first experienced as a rookie SFPD cop - and those hunches? Well, I've learned to pay close attention to them. To not discount them as random, irrelevant feelings.

Not that queasy, sick dread that hollows you out as fully as a hunger pang.

"Jane?"

Of course, what I'm feeling now could just be empathy. Prompted awareness by this space, perhaps. This room, and this little child - so hauntingly similar in physicality to his deceased daughter.

He looks up briefly, cursorily, then looks away - his gaze flittering about the room in butterfly-motion. And yet I sense that something else is etching a message into my guts. An older and far more slippery concern.

"Think about it, Lisbon. To name someone, or something...whether an action or a person. Whatever it is. You're bringing something into existence. A nameless, faceless object is one thing. But things seem _real_ when you name them."

He runs his hands through his hair - seemingly unaware of the action - before continuing.

"It's probably why no one really wants to talk about this sort of stuff. Abuse. They don't want to make it real, to give energy to that experience. You admit what happened, you admit it out loud and it's suddenly _real_."

My heart thunders away in my chest, and I furiously try to ignore the unsettling sense of ownership that he's imparted by his words.

I find that I can't ignore anything. Not this.

"_'You',_ Jane?," I test carefully, having sensed the shifting in his word usage from '_they'_ to '_you', _and finding itdisturbing.

In this quiet space, I hear Jane swallow.

"Thea kept them together so the baby wouldn't be alone. So the baby wouldn't be scared when she was gone."

He catches my eye - briefly - then looks away, seemingly studying the art prints. When he talks again, his voice is so light that I have to strain to hear him over the pounding of my own pulse.

"Jane..."

"See how the clothes on the baby are different? Thea's mother probably noticed the extra special tenderness her daughter showered upon this one and made the baby doll a special outfit. It's one of the few homey touches in this whole creepy house."

I can see it now - that registration - upon Jane's face. That awareness that even if we find this little kid alive, the level of trauma is still going to be extreme. Her mother, dead. Murdered. Her father, as sick as he was, also murdered.

How can there ever be a sense of resolution for this child?

"The other one is still in mint condition too, see? Probably given to her by her father," and Jane's voice cracks then, as if he can't admit aloud that the other man had been, indeed, someone's father.

Thea's father.

Because Jane was a _father_.

But Mr. Castleton?

What he did was monstrous.

"See here, Lisbon? The clothing excessively frilly, on the bigger doll? This was...to Thea...the doll version of herself, now."

Jane picks up the baby doll - pulls it out from under the covers - before turning the little thing around in his hands almost tenderly. Almost as if _it is_ real.

"She didn't want to forget how to feel, and deep down, I think, she worried she might. So she inked in the heart to remind herself. And then, if the baby could feel things too...she couldn't _not_ take care of the baby. See how she stuck the baby under the blankets? Her dad didn't do that, even if he positioned every other thing in this room. Even if he compulsively ordered and arranged everything in Thea's life. That's why none of these toys have been played with. Because, really, they _are_ just for show. But this baby doll is in special clothes and stashed under the covers. She was different. She was...real. And Thea was protecting her. Putting the baby somewhere her daddy wouldn't see right away."

"'Her'?," I clarify, taking in the genderless shape of the doll, and the green and blue striped sweater set. "How do you know that this doll is a 'her'?"

"Thea was protecting _herself_. She probably didn't even realize the symbolism. Kids don't. They...do these sort of things without the obvious surface knowledge. If someone is going to hurt you...well, you learn how to cover it up. Push it away. You learn how to hide when you're little, first. Because you can only fight back when you're big."

I can't help but feel as if his last few words are revelatory. And not only of Thea Castleton.

"The ones who are going to survive, _well..._," he smiles sadly at the berber carpeting, "...you don't start out _trying_ to wear a mask. No one ever does."

"Jane..."

His voice - his warbling, hushed voice - smacks of something almost dissociative, so I touch out for his hand which is currently clenched by his side.

"What are you really saying, Jane?"

The result is immediate. He catches my eyes - _abruptly, as if awoken from a trance_ - and I see it.

Clear as day.

_Shame._

"You...learn how to put on a mask, early, if you need to, Lisbon. That's all."

"Patrick..."

Jane stops talking abruptly at my uncharacteristic use of his first name. Now, instead of talking, he busies himself with tidying the covers of the bed, all the while he continues to hold the baby doll protectively - as if it is, indeed, a real child.

A moment later a curious look passes over his face, and he reaches for the miniscule hat. Pulling it off, his fingers brush lightly over the mock plastic hair as if looking for something.

Something important.

"What is it? What are you looking for?"

He puts the striped hat back on the doll silently, but starts to remove the tiny sweater instead.

"_Jane_? What-?"

The sweater now removed, he turns the doll around in his hands, his eyes scanning the foam body in examination.

"Look here, Lisbon. Look. Look what she drew."

I can see a red doodle on the doll. Not graffiti.

Something important.

"A heart?"

"Yeah. This was...her friend. A living friend, in her mind. Everything else in this room is cold and plastic and unreal. She drew the heart because, truly, this one was alive. This doll watched out for her and reminded her."

"Reminded her? Reminded her of _what_?"

"Reminded her that...she was alive. Or reminded her that someone else cared, or could care, maybe?"

Jane stills, carefully studying the small doll sweater while weighing his words, weighing their importance.

"And that she could still feel something, other than fear. Something good, maybe. That she could still feel something _good _even after all the bad," Jane shuts his eyes.

"We should hold onto it. It's not...evidence of anything. Other than a little child's loneliness. And when we find Thea, we can give her this back. Give her back her friend?," he releases a pent up breath, and I find myself doing the same as he passes the doll over to me for safe keeping.

"I'm going to go find Cho and Van Pelt. See if they are done surveying the basement. And we should try to talk to some of the neighbours tonight before we grab supper."

Nodding in agreeance as Jane softly pads away, I see it much more clearly then. That spiky red scribbling. That messily drawn heart, sketched out in some sort of resilient quest for love.

Carefully reaffixing the sweater to the small padded body, I proceed to follow Jane - wanting nothing more than to turn off the lights and shut the door to this room forever.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title - Little Stars - Part 13  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **Well, here we go again! (_So soon_, you ask? _So soon? What's going on_? Right?) Well, sometimes I write in spurting starts and stops, and this week, apparently, my muse has taken up residence in the guest room of my brain. :)

* * *

_Yes, the springtimes needed you. _

_Stars now and then __craved your attention. _

_A wave rose __in the remembered past; _

_or as you came by the open window_

_a violin was singing its soul out. _

_All this __was a given task. _

_But were you capacious __enough to receive it? _

Rainer Maria Rilke, **The Duino Elegies**

* * *

Forced levity.

That's what I've felt from Jane for the last two hours. Ever since we left the Castleton home. And for a man that always insists that_ I_ should trust _him_, he's doing very little to show his parallel-level of trust in me. Because even if I knew before now that Patrick Jane wasn't as carefree as he tried to project (_and how could anyone be? but especially someone with his horror-show past?),_ my prim awareness of his demons, and their origin, was enough for me to leave him be.

His reasons for avoiding certain topics and memories did make a sort of basic sense, after all.

It was a basic sort of survivalism.

Because sometimes to survive, you have to avoid dwelling on certain memories. They'll shred your heart to ribbons, otherwise. Your chest can physically ache from living in the past, or - even worse than the past - from living in the realm of _hypotheticals_. The realm of 'certain realities' - which, due to physical limitations alone - are sometimes outright extinguished. Will never be.

**_Never._**

That word, that concept - so frustratingly irrefutable. You can't appeal or argue with a Never. You can't bring back the dead. And feeling that truth so solidly and assuredly in your bowels is frightening enough for any mortal. To know, deep down, that yes - _even you!_ - will die...it's a reality we hardly ever face. Not fully. We touch upon it when we fill out insurance questionnaires, or answer questions posed by doctors. Risk assesment type questions. But many of us face the prospect of our own deaths in a highly removed manner, with an almost disinterested _what's this gotta do with me?_ air.

We start to outgrow our deepest, sturdiest ties to our childhood selves when we realize that death _will_ claim us. That it's not just some hazy, _down-the-road_ possibility. But a _for sure_ thing.

And if we are 'lucky' enough to be considered "sensitive children" we may even have episodes of panic when this realization moves more prominently into our mind. Maybe we'll even have nightmares. Or maybe that was just _my_ reality, my experience; I wasn't the typical kid, the typical 80's girl, and I certainly didn't live in the most uplifting home after my mother died. I certainly didn't live in a _healthy_ home after my mother died (my father, all but technically dead himself, my middle brother, Gabbie - trapped in his mute hibernation for almost a year).

That being said, I don't believe I am capable of understanding Jane's position. Of conceiving that precise shade of grief that has wound itself around his heart. I have read books about the death of a child, as experienced by the surviving parent. My research into the subject prompted, initially, by his out-of-character admission that he had been institutionalized following the loss of his family.

Oh, yes, research I did. I didn't have a choice. Not when I came to understand just precisely what Jane was admitting. I can still recall that tang of shock - that biting edge of reality as it hit me full force, chasing away the echoing laughter and joking Star Wars references that the man had being flinging out not even seconds before. That was the day that I realized - in more than some vacant or abstract way - that my at-times cocky, goofball-oriented consultant had gone through an event so horrific... that a part of him had shattered. That he'd fallen into a pit of despair so gaping, so _grasping_, that shortly thereafter...he had been considered a danger unto himself.

So how could I not search for information on what he was experiencing, continually so? The _day by day_ pain? How could I not search for books, videos, _information that could help? _Sure, the books were helpful in a sense; they highlighted the seeming _meaninglessness _of childhood death. The unique pain felt with such loss - different in strength and quality from the pain of losing a parent, according to the experts. (Though I can recall reading that assertion and holding back my snarl. I can remember my embittered anger that had lanced through my core at the temerity of these experts; my mother's death had prompted the blackest period of my entire life, and had set the stage for so many of my (quote unquote) _issues.)_

Now, in retrospect, I realize that my anger probably a tidy cover for my huge unease. My huge upset, for Jane. Because when a situation becomes too emotional, too painful in some clawing way - I almost always revert to anger. I almost always find something to become angry about. Sadness shuts me down, but anger keeps me going, as I suspect it does for most. It's why Jane is so focused on exacting revenge; if he's angry over what has happened, well, that anger will blot out horrid pain.

As even in death you continue to love the lost. Even if there is no body, _no physical body to address_, you can hold onto the memory of the lost. Cling onto those almost taunting memories of their _at-one-time_ presence in your life. You can dredge up memories (_and the mind can be cruel this way_), of when they were in your life so fully and truly that at the time you couldn't imagine a reality where they wouldn't be present. Maybe you even fought with them, yelled at them, slammed doors, said something mean.

The guilt, of course, strikes quickly.

I know I felt it after my mom died. Memories, and the guilt: corrosive and surging, _burning_. As if everything you ever did wrong, or could have done wrong, is now thrust upon you. Even as images of your mother slowly fades from your mind's eye like a yellowing, bleached-out newspaper.

Those thoughts - the most hurtful memories of regret - always so plentiful, even as you fight to hold onto memories of the good.

Of course therein lies the path to madness. Those torturous thoughts, almost masochistic in their insistent demand to be answered, to have all angles accounted for and studied and grieved for - as if one stream of obsessional aching isn't enough.

Those 'what if' scenarios.

_'What if I hadn't asked my mom to pick me up that day?'_ or, in Jane's case: _'what if I hadn't gone on that talk show?'_

The crazy-making land of _'what if.'_

Just like when I was a kid, trying to cope with our alcoholic father, deal with my little brothers. Forge onwards by living in denial. Pretending that everything was "fine," and asserting the lie whenever someone (usually a teacher) asked if we were, indeed, "okay." Because what does that really mean, anyway? To be _'okay'?_

In retrospect, I could have avoided a lot of pain in my life. I could have helped _my brothers_ avoid a lot of pain. But that's not how the mind works. We're not robots. We don't look at the new input - in the form of concerned words and testing inquiries - as being liberating. As being _helpful._

No, we usually fear those inquiries. Especially if we've come from a past of betrayal. Moreso if we occupy the present alone - lacking the connection or strength of a loved one by our side.

So of course Jane _acts, _now_; _for 8 years, he has lived under the sad belief that he's been alone. Surrounded by others, physically. But for all intents and purposes..._alone in all the world_.

The stuff he admitted in Dorothea's room - as veiled as he tried to be in his self-reference - caused my skin to prickle. The traits I had previously assumed were generated by a deceitful nature were suddenly seen in a new context: one of self-preservation. Nevermind the fact that he is far too skilled at mentalism, and psychological redirection, to let anything 'slip' that he doesn't mean to share. Or, perhaps more accurately... _needs to share._

Because that's what we're really talking about, isn't it?

Need?

In particular, _his needs_ - which for so long have been ignored or cast aside in favour of mind games, thoughts of vengeance, or trivial minutuae. Anything to numb himself, distract himself. Anything to stop his mind from backtracking to the past, and dwelling on his wife and child.

My antsiness, now, stems from knowing that Jane is still _acting. _From knowing that his easy grins and charming smiles are possible only _because_ he's mastered repression. And is continuing to do so - to repress his pain, even tonight. Pain he doesn't need to cover up any longer. I don't want him to feel that he must always act around me; always hide, always cover up his pain. And it's starting to wear on me...his pulled back responses, which I noted in his earlier vulnerability then spirited away when he suddenly realized that I could see _him_. The real him. The _hurt_ him. I don't want him to hide anymore.

I don't want him to be scared anymore.

* * *

The restaurant smells of steak and alcohol, and I push down my staggering nausea - prompted by the wafting scent of meat. It's not what I want to take in right now - _the burnt odor of animal flesh_ - and I silently curse myself for granting Rigsby the responsibility of choosing the restaurant.

Jane nudges my hand - _having taken the seat besides me instead of his typical opposing space_ - and gives me a pallid smile. A brisk smile, his eyes knowing.

"You can choose something meatless, you know. I'm going to get a side plate of fries or something, myself."

I allow his fingers to lay flush against my hand, simultaneously craving the sensation but finding it almost too intense to bear. Usually, when Jane reaches out and nudges me - establishes some sort of physical connection as he is wont to do (_it's in his blood, I think_), I find it unsettling, distracting. Tonight, for reasons I don't wish to fully address, I find it less distracting, and more heart-racing. Tonight, I will away the staccato-ish thrum of wildly pounding blood as unmistakable gratitude warms my belly.

Tonight, the touch feels consoling.

Which is strange for me, as my instinctual response to anything indicating an _emotional_ connection is, typically, fear. Always _has_ been, if you want to know the truth.

I push that thought away, too. Nothing about Jane should be scary.

_*Is* scary, you mean, Teresa... Nothing about Patrick Jane **is** scary._

I'm mentally fighting with myself, fighting against my sprightly subconscious. Her darkly laughing presence isn't welcome right now. Rarely is, really.

_But certainly not now..._

In fact, the recent sense of agitation that I have felt around Jane is starting to throw me for a loop. I _need_ to feel in control around him. Control of myself, technically - as controlling him is sort of a lost cause from the start, isn't it? Lately though, the classic tenderness and worry that I've always had for him has been branching off and rooting into something more _encasing. _Something almost...consuming. Something I can't so easily shake off.

_Hence the fear..._

Now, whenever his eyes flash in pain, I feel a stinging sense of hurt myself - a squeezing pain dead center, right in my chest. And I don't like the deeper implication here, because it's destabilizing. I don't like this changing relationship and all the heart-hammering sensations that seem to be building within me lately. They are unfamiliar and stronger than anything I've experienced in the past. These progression of thoughts, and this (dare I say it?) s_weetness_, on my part, whenever I let my guard down. Before I catch myself.

These are emotions that are curtailing, if not _exceeding, _the platonic. And even if, in some wild alter-universe, I could somehow envision a relationship with Jane that _did_ exceed the platonic, the reality of who he is, what he's dealing with, and how he feels... makes that a complete and utter impossibility. Romantic-laced or not, what I have with Jane is obviously some sort of bond that has been growing out of control in complexity.

_And it's freaking the bejesus out of me..._

"Calm down," Jane near-whispers then, jolting me back to the present. Back to this dimmed, damned restaurant and to the bloody scent of steak.

"I _am_ calm. I just...uhh, I don't feel very _well_. If you've passed along your freaking flu bug to me Jane, I'll lose my head..."

I give him a look then; a pert, snotty look. Of indignation and classic Lisbon-irritation. Just, you know, to keep things _normal_. Just to lance his almost pressing gaze with my familiar snark.

_'Atta girl...keep him guessing._

Of course, with Jane being Jane I'm _rewarded_ with an indulgent smile instead.

_Crap._

"You do look a little...shaky," Jane's bottom teeth are now cutting into his lip, as if he wants to say more, but is (smartly) holding back from doing just that.

"Stop teasing me," I growl, low enough so that Rigsby and Van Pelt don't automatically hear our not-quite-conversation. Cho, however, does hear and looks over at us with a gleaming awareness. He can't totally understand the complexity of what's going on (_as I barely understand it myself_), but he definitely has an awareness that something's making me jittery. Something _relating to Jane_. And while Jane often gets under my skin, he's never made me full-on flustered before.

_Not like this..._

"I'm not trying to_ tease_ you, Lisbon," Jane begins again, though he withdraws his hand.

_Huh. Look at that. His eyes almost look sincere..._

"Do I really look so...?," I gesticulate with my hands.

"_Jumpy?_ Yeah. You do," and his voice holds a note of not only empathy, but also warmth. As if -_ for some crazy reason_ - he finds said jumpiness endearing. Jane then gazes over my form, my face - as I force my eyes onto the menu, hoping against hope that he won't really _see_ what's going on with me.

_Won't really **get it**..._

"Gimme your hand," he supplies evenly a few moments later.

_I'm really not used to these feelings. That's all there is to it..._

I stare at him. Suspiciously.

_I'm not used to these surges of adrenaline curdling deep through my belly. _

"What? _Why_?"

"You'll see," he murmurs, before taking a sip of his lemon water. Cho, no question about it, is watching us now; asian eyes focused, nary a trace of amusement cast upon his severe features.

"Why?," I repeat, knowing my stubbornness will likely only spur Jane on, not knowing how to break this habit without revealing _more. _But his eyes, if anything, shine of protectiveness. I push away that awful _weakening_ feeling as he smiles up at me again, his hands fiddling around with the soup spoon that has been placed near his water glass.

"_You'll see..."_

Before long he is spinning the spoon around on the table. Around and around._ And around_. If I wasn't dizzy before, I certainly am now.

"Why don't you just build a tower out of the coffee creamers and be done with it?," I huff.

Jane stops spinning the cutlery then, as if momentarily confused.

_As if he hadn't been 100% hyper-aware of his restlessness until now..._

He then gives me a smile that some poor sucker would probably term _angelic_, while I resist smacking my head on the dinner table in frustration, realizing my fatal error.

_You just gave him permission..._

Not five seconds later, if that, he starts to pull out the single-serve creamers from the serving bowl. Lining them single-file, I see his fingertips tremble over the plastic containers as if counting them up.

"Thanks for the idea, Lisbon!," he grins up at me. The attempt at boyish charm is seemingly amusing our waitress, who glances up and away from her order pad at his exclaimation that he _'really does love building things'_ and that he'd _'have maybe become an architect'_ if he'd _'actually been enrolled in school.' _

Even Van Pelt looks at us then, as Jane begins to rapidly add creamer cups to his so-called creamer "castle."

"I was just joking, Jane!," I stammer once I recover. "Can you act like an adult for once, please?"

He grins at the table, shrugging his shoulders in response, before muttering something about how that's _"most definitely the wrong question."_

"Fine, Jane. Fine. You win_..._here," and I offer my hand to him.

_I swear, the man has ADHD. He can deny it all he wants, but he always has to touch things, fiddle around with things...poke things to see how they work. __Or, more correctly: bug people to see what makes them tick._

Jane quickly understands what I'm referencing, and his eyes flash in triumph. He then pushes the pile of creamers off to one side, while I stiffle my admonishment that he should _actually return them to the bowl, properly_. I mean, the man is almost 42 years old, for God's sake. If he doesn't know what is considered appropriate restaurant etiquette by now, no amount of reproachment on my part is going to be of use.

"Show me your trick, then. Or is this magic?"

"It's not a trick. Or magic. It's reflexology, of sorts," Jane finally admits, breaking into my thoughts with his soft voice. "See, there's a little nub...," and he takes my hand, pressing along the inside curvature of my wrist, "...right..._here._ And if you press on it _just so_, it reduces nausea."

At my look of disbelief, he smiles benignly. I whip back my hand, ignoring the tingling sensation from where he's just pressed on my skin.

"You want to...squeeze my wrist?," I test slowly, making sure that I understand him fully. "And this is supposed to make me feel **_better_**? That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard."

Cho looks away from his red-tinged drink, still half heartedly moving the ice around with his neon green bendy straw.

"That's called a _zinger_, Jane. I'd lay off. She's obviously not in a playful mood."

I glower at Cho while Jane continues on, unperturbed by both my glowering and Cho's warning.

"Hmm, you're right. She's not very playful, huh?"

"No," Cho asserts, looking dour. "Definitely not."

"_No_," Jane agrees, face screwed up now - as if this is the most tragic thing he's ever heard. "But see, I've come to a conclusion: that's why I'm here."

"Your purpose in life...," I begin, "...is to drive me nuts?"

I swallow the last dollop of coffee, no real animosity in my tone.

"Don't be so cynical, Liss... it _does_ work. It's all about releasing blockage by pressing on trigger points..."

_'Liss.' That damnable nickname again..._

"I am more than aware of my trigger points, Jane. You trigger them _daily_."

"_Anatomical_ trigger points, dear Lisbon, are a completely different thing," Jane smiles sunnily, "And by pressing on a trigger point you can release a build up of tension. Because tension isn't something you should live with long-term. It can lead to all sorts of problems: headaches, racing heart, jitteriness. Excessive amounts of adrenaline can also worsen nausea. Tension can definitely be bad."

"It_ can_ be bad?"

"Well, sometimes it's necessary," Jane asserts, seemingly confident in his position. "I mean, where would we be without it? It's just another source of environmental input. It's just a symptom, on its own, isn't it?"

"_Tension,"_ I grind out, just in case this is Jane's idea of a _very_ inappropriate joke. Dropping the volume of my voice into a very low timbre, I warn, "You better not be implying what I think you're implying or else I-..."

Jane blinks a few times, and I suddenly realize that I'm way off the mark. Not only that, I can tell that he's followed my train of thought through to its _less-than-pure_ conclusion.

He is now sitting up straighter in his seat, glancing around the table as if **_he's_** flustered.

_A sight I never thought I'd see, really..._

The others, thankfully, have only been paying semi-attention to our rapport at best; Cho is still caught up in ordering, and Rigsby and Van Pelt, it seems, are still debating about a particular movie.

"_Oh boy_," Jane whistles softly then, almost to himself - his eyes still showing momentary shock before he stares down at his hands, smirks to himself. When he realizes that we are safely in the clear, he whispers,"that's not what I meant _at all _Lisbon_. _Interesting mental leap_._"

He isn't meeting my eyes, and I feel myself turn scarlet with mortification.

"Anyway, what I was_ going_ to say was..." Jane shifts in his seat again, almost as if nervous. Still uncomfortable with my mistake, I don't quite register Jane's subtle encroachment into my space as he continues to speak. "There's a pressure point along the lobe of our ears - right about _here_," and I feel his cool hands drift along the nape of my neck, running up and along my ear before he lightly squeezes the flesh.

I recoil immediately.

"Ouch! That _hurt, _Jane!," I stammer, pulling back almost on impulse.

Cho takes a sip of his Shirley Temple, having been lulled back into our exchange due to my outburst. I can sense that he's amused in his almost _blink-and-you'll-miss-it_ Cho way.

"See. That's proof positive that-," Jane begins, before I cut him off.

"Don't do that again! I'm serious, Jane! That felt like you were pressing on glass shards or something," I mutter, distantly confused by how his relatively light touch could invoke such pain.

"In fact, I should just make a list: don't fiddle around with the settings on my phone, don't mix up my caffeinated coffee with decaf, and don't _pinch_ me."

Jane sighs, looking oddly embarassed by my description of his antics.

"C'mon...now you're just making me sound like a _jerk._ I didn't really pinch you, Lisbon. I mean, I barely touched you. But that part of the ear is a notable tension spot correlating to stomach disorders, so..."

"Which you know I _have already_," I rebound, still mentally holding onto the spark of pain in an effort to erase the last few awkward moments. Most notably the awkward moment that _I_ triggered between us...

_Although Jane's hands-on approach certainly isn't helping to reduce my discomfort, either. _

"Well, yes. But that's not the point, my dear. There is a relationship between tension points and other conditions, other disorders. So maybe if you looked into holistic therapies or natropathic alternatives you'd heal your ulcer once and for all?"

"Oh yeah, that'll be the day," I grumble my displeasure into my coffee cup while our waitress - _"Anita"_ - comes round to our side, almost hesitantly.

"And what can I get for you, sir?," she asks Jane politely, while the man in question laces his hands together before resting them on the table. The action is reminiscent of a well behaved school boy, and I catch Cho's mouth quirk.

"What would you recommend...," Jane feign-squints to the white and red name tag, before giving a small smile, "_Anita?_ What would you recommend of the vegetarian variety?"

The girl looks spooked, poor thing. I mean, we _are_ in a steak house. I highly doubt they get this question very often.

"Are you a vegetarian, sir?," she squeaks. "Be-because we really don't have that much-"

"Potatoes, maybe?," he smiles, though his tone lacks the typical flirty winsomness that usually peppers his speech when he's trying to extract information from a female.

_Well, that's a relief. At least he doesn't flirt with people under thirty..._

"Do you have anything in the spud family? Maybe some pan fried button mushrooms for my friend here?," he queries, patting me lightly on the arm. "She doesn't feel very _well_."

I almost want to say something acerbic at that, only stopping when I take in the girl's owlish expression. The quicker I can determine what I actually feel like ingesting, the better.

_Not much, it would seem..._

"Maybe a baked potato?," the kid suggests, turning to me. I'm suddenly reminded of Van Pelt. _A mini _Van Pelt, actually - which is even more amusing_._ "When I don't feel very well...sometimes that settles my stomach," she proffers kindly, looking sympathetic.

"Oh, that sounds _perfect,_" Jane interjects, "A baked potato for me, please. Extra butter? And a side of cheese toast? Same for you, Liss?"

Jane gives me a grin, enjoying this outting a little too much, if you want my humble opinion.

"Uhh, can I have a cup of soup, please?," I scour the menu for options, "minestrone?"

"Sure thing!," and Anita scribbles down my request in what must amount to short-hand script, before asking, "Would you like to add a starter greek salad to your order for only a dollar more, miss?"

Jane gives me a light nudge with his shoulder, encouraging me to eat something more substantial. When I don't comply, he merely adds a pina colada to the order, requesting two glasses.

_Not obvious at all there, Patrick..._

"That'll be everything?," the girl asks me uncertainly. I nod, sighing, but secretly consoled by the fact that I must emit some sense of authority over this motley group if I get the primary addressal. As Anita rushes away, I turn and stare at Jane.

"I can order for myself, Jane..."

"Sure you can. I'm just doing my part in making sure you ingest more than, well, _that_," he indicates to my coffee mug, now sadly voided of coffee. "You know... _maybe_ you wouldn't have an ulcer if you didn't drink_ liters_ of coffee every day while routinely skipping meals?"

For a man who lives off Wonder bread sandwiches and processed cheese slices while holed up in a dusty - possibly _mildew infected - _attic, I fail to see how my eating habits are any of his concern.

* * *

My soup comes first.

I busy myself with smashing up the first batch of saltine crackers with the back of my dessert spoon, before chucking the crumbly mess into the bowl, and swirling it around. I stop my actions with the second small package when I catch Jane watching me.

Cho clears a space on the table so he can place his canary-yellow pad of looseleaf by his plate, ready to take notes.

"So," he starts, "where are we at?"

Rigsby reaches into his messenger bag, pulling out lists of teachers, neighbours, relatives - _anyone, really - _who knew the Castleton's well enough to offer up a potentially vital piece of information. Cho roughly sketches out some tables and columns with a black sharpie, doing his best to read Van Pelt's loopy handwriting and jotting down notes.

I push a couple pasta pieces around in my bowl, disinterested with the food - trying to think of the most effective way to proceed.

"We'll need to split up for interviewing purposes, of course," I pick up the list of contact names for people we still need to talk to, "maybe keep everything to geographical chunks to limit transit time?"

"Everyone by themselves, or a group of two and a group of three?," Rigsby starts, and it doesn't take a mind reader to get that he's hoping that we'll be going in two groups, as he's just outlined.

_With Jane and myself in the group of two, no doubt..._

Jane peers over my shoulder, catching sight of names and addresses, and giving me a knowing smile as he does so. Then he glances back down to the list, his eyes squinting while he focuses on more important matters.

"Thea's primary pediatrician and maternal aunt live pretty close together," he muses. "Maybe we can finally learn why this kid was put on proton pump inhibitors."

That's something I've wanted to have addressed since I first got the basic info faxed over to me two days previously. After all, it's not every day that a 7 year old is put on dexlansoprazole.

"_Proton_-what?," Rigsby questions.

"Proton pump inhibitors," I state easily, "they are a class of medications used to reduce gastric acid secretion."

"So the kid produces too much stomach acid?," Rigsby asks again, puncturing a tiger shrimp with the tine of his fork. "Is that it?"

Jane's eyes flirt over to mine, looking solemn.

"Not...necessarily," I begin, "I take a similar medication called rabeprazole, and I actually don't produce _enough_ stomach acid."

"Weird," Rigsby muses, understandably lost. "That doesn't really sound like it makes much sense..."

"Well, I have an ulcer," I add, "so even small, less-than-normal amounts of stomach acid can cause pain..."

Jane seems to have stilled in his salt and pepper application, and glances up, meeting my eyes.

"Could Thea have an ulcer too, maybe?," he asks me softly. "I mean, that's why they are usually prescribed, isn't it?"

I shrug. "It's possible. But lots of gastrointestinal disorders are treated with PPI's - not just ulcers."

"That's how we are gonna divy this up, boss? Geography?," Cho inquires, seemingly less interested in theorizing what was wrong with the kid, and more interested in getting the leg work done. "What about if we interview by _type_ of contact? I mean, this kid had a lot of doctors."

"_Has_," Jane insists, "She _has_ a lot of doctors."

Cho doesn't bother commenting, and merely conceeds the point to our consultant.

No one is going to argue with Jane.

Not on this case.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title - Little Stars - Part 14  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **telling you guys that my life has been insanely crazy this last little while probably won't cut it, will it? :0) But, it's the truth. I should really just make myself have a "words per day" sort of goal, though, if only so that weeks and weeks and, gosh, even months...don't pass by between updates. For those waiting for an update, thank you all for being so patient!

**Warning:** this chapter is nothing if not a Jane-Pain chapter. Next chapter will start to move ahead for him and Lisbon, both.

* * *

Jane waits. Patiently, all things considered - eyeing an electric-orange giraffe growth chart, while I scan a table scattered with magazines for anything remotely worthwhile to read.

_Chatelaine?_

Not my thing.

_Better Homes and Gardens?_

I still live out of boxes. Apparently my interest in home decorating could be improved upon.

"Agent Lisbon?"

Jane turns with a bit of a start, as if jolted by the voice. It's an odd sort of occurrence for the man, when he never seems to be surprised by much of anything.

I rise from the padded waiting room seat and hold out my hand in the perfunctory gesture of polite introduction.

Jane, I can see, keeps his hands foisted up in his suit jacket, causing the pin stripe material to stretch outwards. Evidence that he does not, in fact, plan to make any ones acquaintance. He nods his introduction instead, his mouth turning into an almost cautious smile. A half smile. His eyes are at half mast - casted in some sort of reservation, and lacking their typical sprightly warmth.

"Dr. Mowat?," I clarify, more as part of my routine than genuine questioning.

The woman before me nods curtly, her eyes now trained almost solely on Jane. She was undoubtedly expecting my presence, and my presence alone.

"This is Patrick Jane," I address easily, answering her unvoiced query when it appears as if Jane has gone back to silently studying animal cut-outs on the wall. "He's a consultant with the CBI, working this case. He'll be present for this interview."

Dr. Mowat accepts the response, then holds her hand out to lead the way along the corridor, so I nudge Jane back to reality with a softly vocalized _"Jane, c'mon",_ before I follow along and enter the small office. When Jane finally bypasses the pine door, I see him quickly take in the new atmosphere with equal concentration and attention to detail. As if the colour of the walls or the animal decorations are going to be vital clues for the solving of this case. I shake my head, almost amused, before I ready a couple files on Dorothea, and pass forward certain pages that are of relevance to Dr. Mowat.

"Agent Rigsby gave you a brief...run down of the situation, is that correct?," I test.

Dr. Mowat sighs, looks uncomfortable, but nods.

"I'm extremely sorry to hear about the Castleton's. They were a lovely family."

Jane does little to conceal his snort. I turn to him, eyes alert and wide in warning.

He seems to do his best not to look at me, not to pay me any attention whatsoever.

"Lovely," he begins, "yes, surely. We really do feel this family was targeted for their _loveliness."_

"Jane...," I begin, my voice a low growl, and I feel a headache coming on; I squeeze my eyes shut tightly for a momentary release of pressure.

Dr. Mowat seems unduly cautious now. As she should be.

I decide to play the go-between role. I seem to do that best.

"I'm sorry. Tense case. We are all a little...unnerved by certain information that has come to light. That said, you've been Dorothea's primary pediatrician for...how long?"

The woman's arms are now crossed, her spine incredibly straight. On edge.

Jane has just made our job about five times harder.

"For almost three years, Agent Lisbon. Since the Castleton's moved to this area."

I nod. I already know this, but I typically confirm basic details anyway.

"So you've been Dorothea Castleton's doctor since she's been about...four? Four and a half? Something like that?"

Dr. Mowat nods, still wary of what is to come, apparently.

"And in the last three years, approximately how many times would you say...you've seen Dorothea, for tests, or examinations?"

"I'd have to consult files to be absolutely sure, Agent."

Jane smiles now. It almost looks real.

"Oh, no need for that. An approximation is fine. Five times, ten times,_ twenty_ times?"

His voice seems friendly enough. But I know better.

"If I had to guess...I'd say somewhere in the region of fifteen to twenty times, perhaps."

Jane nods his head, as if digesting the information.

"I see, I see...and you would be the only doctor she's seen in that time, to your knowledge? Or have you referred her to additional doctors?"

Dr. Mowat sighs. "I'm her primary pediatrician, but I have referred her to several doctors over the years, yes. GI specialists."

Jane looks down at his hands, and I see the firm, steely hardness cloud his eyes, even from this distance.

"Gastroenterologists?," he supplies. "That's all?"

Dr. Mowat walks behind her desk, sits down, opens a filing cabinet.

"GI specialists, yes, but I've also encouraged her parents to take her for additional services."

"Additional services? Like what?," and I ready a notepad, jotting down bits and pieces of relevant information. Though, truly, with Jane here - note taking becomes more or less unnecessary.

"I thought it would be a good idea for Dorothea to possibly see a child psychologist."

"Mmm, yes," Jane agrees, nodding, "prompted no doubt over concerns about a seven year old with an ulcer, I guess. I mean, that's got to be unusual...how many little kids come to you with bleeding stomach ulcers, Dr. Mowat?"

"Dorothea was a..."

"_Is_," Jane interrupts, all feigned warmth and charitable ease now absent from his features. "We have no evidence to suggest this child has been murdered just yet, doctor."

I still, not feeling the need to intervene again just yet. I can only watch the expression of Dr. Mowat slip into something pained, something undeniably upset.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't aware of the...details of this case."

"So you just...talk about all your patients in past tense, then? Obviously, if the police are here, they must be dead, is that it?"

"No, I...I...I'm sorry."

Jane waves his hand in a manner expressing dismissal. As if he could care less about little oversights, when all three of us in the office know better.

"So...up to twenty times, maybe. You've seen this little kid, say, more than a dozen times for sure. What prompted a referral to a child psychologist? Or was it just the fact that she was bringing up blood with her egg white omelets and carrot sticks?"

Dr. Mowat sighs deeply, opens a file scrawled in computerized print out font. Sets a few yellow file notes aside.

"Dorothea is, _has always been_ - extremely sensitive. To such a degree...that I didn't think was healthy."

"Sensitive, how? Obviously, you were on the alert for something more than just being sensitive," I supply. "What was your primary concern?"

"She was...an extremely high strung child, Agent Lisbon. Worried about everything, _anything_. Scared of the dark, scared of monsters - even the last time I saw her, the same old fears. Nothing was changing, according to her mother. Thea would sit rigidly, answer questions anxiously. Smart little girl, but also inhibited. I was worried about her. For her. Even if she didn't have an ulcer, I'd have been worried about her for those reasons alone."

Jane ambles in a little closer then, some of the terse aggression dissipating from his face, his stance.

"And...the reasons? Did you ever talk to Dorothea herself? Ask her questions about...what was making her so afraid?"

"Of course, Mr. Jane. Of course I did! But the responses never deviated. I'd ask her if anything was the matter, and she'd always tell me that nothing was wrong. She loved her ballet, and she loved her school, her friends, her family. There was nothing to go on, nothing to pursue. A child psychologist could confirm a generalized anxiety disorder diagnosis, but outside of basic questions and answers, I am not trained to deal with_ emotional problems_ in children. Look, her parents were worried about reactive attachment disorder - given that Dorothea was adopted - so I did my best to give them names, referrals to doctors who were actually authorized to make that sort of diagnosis."

Jane bristles at the words then, his mouth set in a hard, firm line.

"RAD. Makes sense. Truly. Because...how convenient. The child doesn't bond easily...ergo the problem is with the child, with the fact that she's damaged, isn't that right? From the very beginning, no less. Of course the child is watchful, guarded... manipulative. Of course she's _wrong_."

I feel chills go up my spine.

A prickling against my chest, arms - and I watch Jane, watch as his eyes flare up in new found anger. And pain.

I'm taken aback by how much pain I see in those eyes. How much undiluted upset, frustration.

_Rage._

Apparently, so is Dr. Mowat, because she's likewise quiet.

"She's adopted though, so she came that way, is that it? Never mind the fact that _that_ diagnosis would just completely remove all blame from potential child abusers entirely, now wouldn't it?"

"Jane!," I hiss, and to Dr. Mowat, dour and almost looking sick now: "I'm sorry. Dorothea is one of several children who have been abducted by, we believe, the same perpetrator. Without saying more than that, all I can add is that there may be a connection of abuse amongst the children abducted. At this time we are trying to determine how this information may have been obtained by the person or persons who have taken these children."

The office suddenly feels tense with pent up breath, pent up emotions.

"Did you at any time write or indicate in your notes...a suspicion of abuse?," I try again, looking for some sort of familiar pattern amongst these cases. Some red flag that would have alerted our killer, and made the Castleton family a target for murder, for abduction of the small child whose photo currently smiles back at me in shy anxiety. Of course, it is difficult to ask the questions that need to be asked without sounding somewhat accusatory.

"Of course not. I've expressed to you both already the extent of my concerns. If I felt that there had been any obvious signs of abuse, I would have called Child and Family Services immediately."

Jane smile-snarls at the red and black linoleum flooring, his voice calmer in tone than his eyes when he speaks.

"I take it you always saw Dorothea for her check ups...with her parents present? Would that be a correct assumption?"

"Her mother or father were always present, yes. One if not both. But that's not unusual. Almost all of my patients arrive with their parents, and in most situations - at least one parent stays with the child during the examination. With the exception of teenagers, but for the most part children usually feel less anxious with a parent present."

I hear Jane's exhalation, loud and stressed. As if this new information will not do. _Will not do at all._

"But here's the problem with that sort of setup, doctor. If you're a little kid, and you're being abused...you are not likely to talk about what's happened to you while your sitting atop your Daddy's lap, now are you? That doesn't really give a little kid the freedom to say, _"my daddy hurt me,"_ does it?"

My heart is racing.

_'I feel safe.'_

Why is my heart beating so quickly?

_'I feel safe here, Lisbon.'_

When Jane speaks again, his voice is a little more composed.

"Did you at any time, oh _I dunno_, request to speak with Dorothea alone?"

"Yes, I did, Mr. Jane. I tried to give her that option. But I couldn't demand to see the child alone, and I can't go around acting suspiciously of every mother or father who comes in with a highly anxious, troubled child. I can't just assume _abuse_."

Time for some damage control.

"Dr. Mowat, please do not take my partner's questions as a personal...attack of your methods, of your ways having handled this case. We're simply trying to determine how certain critical pieces of information may have been distributed to the person or persons responsible for taking Dorothea, and through which channels. We're simply trying to look for connections, for attributes shared amongst the victims."

Jane finally sits down in the originally proffered chair, and his hand snakes out to grab hold of Dorothea Castleton's file. He opens the tan folder and begins to read, hurriedly.

"These...proton pump inhibitors, doctor - these were for the ulcer?"

"Primarily. Dorothea was on a four part treatment regime, which included antibiotics. She has had stomach and bowel problems for several years, which we had been treating, for the most part, without drugs. About five months ago, Dorothea started vomiting up blood. Recently the condition had been getting even more severe."

"Even more serious than...bleeding ulcers?"

"She was vomiting after almost every meal, according to her parents. She had lost a lot of weight. Her sleep was being effected. Her hair was falling out. We were discussing hospitalization."

"And what would cause ulcers this badly...I mean, typically...what would cause them to get to this stage? Not just in a child, but generally?"

I try to ignore his barely concealed glance in my direction. Knowing Jane as long as I have, I can still feel the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck.

"Stress?," he supplies a moment later when an answer is not immediately forthcoming.

"Perhaps. Doctors still dispute the technical causes. We've linked ulcers to bacterial infection. Extreme overgrowth of a certain bacteria in particular. But you're right...stress makes every condition worse. It impedes healing, weakens the immune system."

"And what would cause this particular...bacteria to flourish in one person and not another? Certain behaviours? Dieting?"

I swallow down a retort. Of course Jane would play double duty with this case. He's been on my case to eat more for the last few months, drink less coffee. Take 'better care' of myself. An almost hilarious suggestion from a man who until recently was spending his hours sleeping in a mold infested attic.

"Perhaps. Ulcers often seem to initially flare up after a period of poor health, often prompted by, yes, extreme dieting. Or more often than that - complete skipping of meals, or a sub-par intake of certain nutrients. But that's only one of a handful of _suspected_ triggers. We know certain stressful occurrences, usually highly stressful events - physically or psychologically stressful, can also trigger the development of what we call stress ulcers. Which typically end up as bleeding ulcers. And even once the behaviour is corrected for, ulcers themselves often remain. They are typically difficult to treat, and highly difficult to cure, especially in children. And there's more likely than not a genetic relationship."

Jane closes the tan folder, taps it lightly against his knee. I wonder if he's even conscious of the motion.

"And what about if the ulcer was more or less...induced?"

I look up abruptly, my eyes locking with Dr. Mowat's.

She looks at startled as I do at the suggestion.

"Induced? And how would this ulcer have been induced, pray tell?"

"What about an eating disorder?," Jane supplies easily.

It's obviously not some random, spur of the moment idea.

He doesn't work that way.

"In a seven year old?"

Jane nods, undeterred. "Or even a younger child, say. Thea's had an ulcer for...what...two years now? Almost two years?"

Dr. Mowat pushes back from her seat, her features contorted in upset.

"You are seriously maintaining that a seven year old was struggling with something as serious an anorexia, and I failed to detect that anything of the sort was wrong?"

Jane interlocks his fingers, lays his hands on his lap, looking for all the world completely at ease.

I know better.

"Well, it doesn't have to be anorexia in the classic sense. Bulimia, perhaps. Maybe some sort of...combination of the two. She eats, she vomits. She's bringing up almost every meal, you said. It would better explain her severe stomach problems. And your notation...here," and he points to a particular page in Dorothea's file, "of enamel erosion. Never mind an excessive amount of cavities despite, according to her draconian father, a sugar-less, fat-less, carb-less diet. Interesting, wouldn't you say? For a child that has absolutely no treats, to be so riddled with cavities. But vomiting would do all of that too, wouldn't it?"

"Of course vomiting would do that! The main cause of the enamel errosion was always linked to the vomiting. But vomiting is common _in_ ulcer patients, Mr. Jane! The ulcer triggers the nausea which triggers the vomiting. Involuntarily, I might add. There's nothing odd about that."

"But what if the ulcers wasn't the cause of the vomiting. What if it was the other way around? Can't ulcers also be generated by long term untreated eating disorders? I mean, Thea seems to fit the classic model..."

"She's _seven_!"

Jane continues on, steadily and solidly as if his idea hasn't been outright dismissed.

"Firstly, she's a_ she_. A somewhat confounding but unarguably sad truth: most sufferers of these conditions _are_ female," he turns to me then, his mouth quipped up into a sad yet tired expression of acceptance. "Why females feel the need to starve and distort their bodies to express their pain, I'll never know. Perhaps it has something to do with their seemingly innate tendency towards repressing aggression. Anger turned inwards, so to speak. They can't take it out on the person that hurts them, so they take it out on themselves."

"You can't _honestly_ be stating that you think-"

"Oh, but I am, Dr. Mowat. Dorothea Castleton was repressed. She didn't deal well with her emotions. She wasn't a tomboy, or prone to expressing her upset physically. She shut her emotions off completely, or tried to, at any rate. Her mother, according to your notes, mentioned a concern regarding obsessive and compulsive behaviours - ironic, really, given Mr. Castleton's own controlling nature. She was in ballet - nothing wrong with that of course, except for the fact that her father controlled her diet like a tyrant. Her bi-annual physicals show that she was extremely low on the weight spectrum - grossly underweight, given her height - and that she had a history of frequent vomiting after meals. If anything, her age was probably the only reason why her larger problems failed to be addressed as possibly stemming from body image problems. Nobody assumes that a child is going to make herself deliberately sick. But if she had been, say... thirteen or fourteen, would you really have been so dismissive of the possibility?"

The doctor looks downright ill now, and when she pulls back the file, her eyes scan the notes as if seeing the writing, the charts and notations - for the first time.

"I...I _asked_ her, Mr. Jane. I asked her the very questions you'd ask a child if you suspected abuse! She never..."

"She never _was_ going to admit to anything with_ him_ there. She wasn't going to admit to being raped by her father when he was in the room, holding her hand! Why didn't you insist they leave? Why didn't you give her a chance to confide in you? No one gave this little kid a chance to have it stopped!"

He gets up suddenly, his motions stiff and infused with more anger than I have ever seen before.

It's frightening on so many levels. That anger, so badly contained that it's now spilling over in routine interviews with average citizens.

When the door clicks with a resounding shudder, I turn back to the now green gilled doctor.

"I'm sorry. This...as you can imagine, it's not something that any-"

The doctor waves away my concerns, my attempt to apologize for my brusque and pained consultant.

"I can make you copies of these pages, here, if you'd like, Agent Lisbon. These were the names of the specialists I referred Dorothea to...both for her GI issues, and for other concerns. Behavioural concerns. I can't promise you that the Castleton's took their daughter to any of these physicians, of course - I don't do those sort of follow ups, I only provide the referrals."

"I understand," and I softly mutter a thank you as the doctor shakily gets up to make the necessary photocopies.

* * *

I find Jane in the car, and for that, I say a small prayer in gratitude. Theoretically he could have wandered off to almost any part of the hospital.

But then I recall our deal, our agreement that if he wishes to stay assigned to this case, he must follow some basic protocol. Our agreed upon rules about not wandering off, not starting undue trouble, not tricking witnesses.

_Not antagonizing witnesses_ - a new and needed addition, apparently. One that I would have just assumed went without saying.

Apparently I can't assume anything with Patrick Jane.

Unlocking my side of the car, I pull back the seat and stash the newest documents in my briefcase before turning to look back at my friend. Jane's eyes are closed, and a less aware mortal might actually suspect him of drowsing, of sleeping. Lucky me, I know him well enough to understand that this isn't the case, and I quickly get into the vehicle, shutting and locking the door and starting the ignition in record time.

He stirs at the _ping ping ping_, and I realize somewhat guiltily that he may have been cat napping, after all.

All the same, I keep my eyes trained on him. My heart is racing, and I feel queasy. Antsy. Full of dread. Prompted by Jane's suggestions, of course, but also prompted by something less identifiable.

His eyes flutter open, and come to rest, only half way open, while I continue to study him in silence.

"What?," he grouses, somewhat defensively, and it's then that I know that something else is wrong. Something less precise than the proposed abuse, or self-abuse, of our victim. Something that I should probably just disregard for the time being, given that I have absolutely nothing but some aching gut instinct to go on. Nothing to employ other than feelings and suppositions. And in two seconds flat, Jane, if he so chooses, will be able to take any one of my concerns and flip it around to make me appear overly impacted by this case, by this victim.

My concerns would simply become evidence for _my_ issues, _my_ problems.

"Jane, you can't just..."

"Are you telling me that I shouldn't be angry? That little girl never had a chance!," he begins, and I continue to watch him, continue to watch him without comment.

Apparently he wants a response. Apparently he wants my typical angry retorts.

"Oh, come on, Lisbon! You can't tell me that you're not...upset. All those clues. Just starring adults in the face, and _no one_ stepped in. Not one person stepped in and tried to get her help! Tried to stop it!"

His voice is sibilant, and the words themselves come out as dry, parched. I offer Jane a canned Five-Alive then and he takes it gratefully, popping open the tab and taking an indelicate _scwwwwhp_ as he sips.

"Thank you," he mutters, authentically, somewhat mollified by the gesture as he studies the top of the can. Traces the edge of the aluminum with his finger, gently.

"I don't think you can say that no one tried to help her, Jane. Not with total...accuracy. Dr. Mowat can't just go around accusing..."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Lisbon! That little kid was obviously in a bad place! You don't need to be_ psychic_ to know something was wrong. It's so _obvious_. Thea told them all she could tell without using words! Her body told! Her body was her voice!"

His hands are trembling.

He hasn't been sleeping. This child looks so much like his daughter. But I know there's also something else. _I know there has to be. _Because the pieces aren't fitting. The pieces I keep finding are to a different puzzle, an older puzzle.

_'Her body was her voice!'_

His hands are trembling.

"What is going on with you, Jane?"

He blinks, and I almost laugh. I've never seen that look on his face before - that momentary bewilderment, as if I've thrown him for a loop - even as it is rapidly replaced by cautiousness. A feigned, _I have no idea what you are talking about_ look of put-on confusion.

"What do you mean?," he tests, before taking another sip of the fruit juice.

I continue to stare at him.

"I really have no idea what you're getting at, Lisbon!," he begins with a type of complete dismissal that has me reeling.

"Jane, don't. Just _don't._ Don't do this, don't lie to me-"

"Don't do what, you say? Don't lie to you? When have I ever outright lied to you, Lisbon? What's_ going on with me_? As if..._my_ responses are unusual? As if-"

"What happened today has nothing-"

"What happened today?," he interrupts with a scoff, and when he turns to face me, his eyes burn with such bitterness that it makes my stomach clench in apprehension.

"What happened today," I reiterate, not letting him take control of the conversation, "is...not just because she reminds you of Charlotte."

His hands clench around the metal with such force that indentations quickly begin to scour the surface of the can.

"Dorothea Castleton and...my...my daughter, they were _nothing alike_, Lisbon! How could they be?"

If I thought I had heard anger in his words, before - in the clinic, well...I hadn't heard anything yet, apparently.

"Physically they-"

"Physically, _yes_. Yes, they look alike. Thea looks like Charlotte, with straighter hair, and a more timid expression, and that's it. _That's it_ Lisbon. I certainly don't look at photos of that little kid and see Charlotte! How can I see any likeness, any resemblance? In those awful doctors notes, in that sick bedroom? Not there, not in that ugly place! That man wasn't a father, he was a monster! How can I look at a photo of Thea and see my daughter, Lisbon?"

I do not correct Jane's grammar.

I do not contradict his insistence to speak of his daughter in present tense, and not past. I let it go, knowing that to argue on such a point is to demand he admits to the reality of death, rather than some distant wish of continued life for his little girl. If only in his words, his imaginings.

"That goes without saying, Jane," I insist, starting anew - angry at the mere suggestion that I could possibly be confused on that particular point.

"Your daughter had," I stop, continue on in the manner that Jane has been using, of present tenses, and nothing else, "your daughter has... the best father. That's never been in dispute. That never could be in dispute. Don't you know how I see you? The type of person you are, the type of man?"

His breathing is suddenly faster than normal.

Regimented breaths. _In, out, in, out, in, out._

"Jane," I try again, attempting to infuse my voice with a certain degree of strength. Resolute strength, all the while he continues to sit rigidly in his seat, his blond head now turning away from me as he stares out of the car and pitches his eyes on the black-blue asphalt lines of the parking lot.

He holds the juice can just as stiffly in his hand, too, and I notice that the juice has spilled over the confines of the can, and is now running down and over his fingers. Rivulets of juice. He doesn't seem to notice, but he also doesn't object when I extract the can from his fingers, gingerly. Put it aside, place it in the beverage holder.

"I know it hurts to see that child, to-"

"It doesn't matter Lisbon. It doesn't matter if it hurts! How I feel about myself as a father...it has absolutely nothing to do with this case!"

"Doesn't matter? You were...enraged Jane. I've never seen you so angry before!"

He takes a deep breath in, then looks up. His eyes shimmer with undiluted, unconcealed honesty. Nervousness. Open and probing - the expression all too scared for_ Patrick Jane_.

But those eyes capture me, possibly because I am seeing them fully for the first time. Seeing him, without the smiling, easy gaze. Seeing him without that put-upon charm. I feel as if I'm seeing him for who he truly is, and being trusted with a side of his person that he typically hides away.

He looks back down again, as if suddenly all too aware of the intensity of his gaze, my gaze; his eyes suddenly fixate on his seat belt. He clicks it into place, and opens his mouth. Shuts it.

_Hesitant._

I'm about to prod him to continue, when he asks, "Do you think there's something wrong with me, Lisbon?"

I swallow, try to dislodge the shock in my being. Focus on the question.

I can't seem to make sense of the words he has just uttered.

They seem nonsensical.

I repeat them to myself, quietly, internally - and note with anxiety that his mouth is now down turned.

As if my lack of immediate refusal is confirmation that _yes, indeed_, there is something _wrong_ with him.

"_What_? Jane...what are you asking me?"

"It's...it's simple," and his eyes suddenly look swollen with, to my horror - tears. "Do you think there is something wrong with me? I just want you to tell me the truth."

I have no idea how to even address that question. How to even start. My head is just...swimming with questions.

"Be-because of what happened to your family?"

"Not...not just that. I know I'm not, that I'll never be _normal_ now because of..."

"Jane - stop it! Stop talking like that!"

My throat hurts.

"Why would you ask such a stupid question Jane? Such a ridiculously stupid question?"

He smiles softly at his lap, but it's pained. Not cocky, not assured.

"I knew she saw the worst bits, and I knew she...I knew she loved me - Angela, I mean," and he looks back up at me, momentarily, to confirm that I understand. "But I don't know _why_ she loved me. I never understood why."

Nothing about what he's saying makes sense right now; I want to grab him and shake him. I want to stop my heart from squeezing and twisting and hurting like it's hurting.

"She asked me to see someone, you know - a psychiatrist. I didn't want to always do certa...well, we were married when we were pretty young," Jane's face is suddenly scarlet, suddenly red, and I try to follow along, but I'm lost.

He seems so embarrassed about something. So ashamed.

But I'm so badly lost.

"What?...I don't...Jane...I don't _understand_."

He exhales, shakes his head as if frustrated, "I couldn't be with her like a husband is supposed to be with his wife. I...had to drink before, you know? I had to be _drunk_, Lisbon. Just to be open like that, so I could just be...like everyone else. Like I was supposed to be, with her. I was so scared of what shouldn't have been scary, and then the things I do that everyone says should scare me...they don't scare me."

My head is swimming in a fog. My thoughts and emotions and scrambled. I feel upset. I feel like I might cry.

"I do things and I get reactions, and I don't always feel badly when people tell me I should. They said it was normal. Well, not normal. Understandable. RAD. And then, with Thea - to suggest that all of the problems - her anxiety, her fear... were because she was adopted, and not because she was being hurt...it made me so angry. That they were going to blame her, too."

Jane is still starring at his lap, his shoulders hunched in upon himself. He looks... miserable.

"A doctor said that? That you had that? _Reactive Attachment Disorder_?," I qualify, and damn it - _why do I want to cry?_

"Yeah." His voice comes out almost in a gasp, a shock of sound. Quickly clamped down around his pain.

I turn off the ignition, feeling numb.

"You've never...told me any of this. It's hurting you, and you never even brought any part of it up...why?"

He stares at me, his mouth twisting, turning.

_He wants to talk._

_He doesn't want to talk._

"Jane, please don't tune me out," I whisper, trying to get him to face me. When that doesn't work, I urge him forward and he lets me move him, lets me bend and shape him into my shoulder, into my chest. I rest the top of his head against the base of my throat, his rigid arms kept stiff like sticks at his sides. Immobile.

"Why?," I try again.

"Why...what?," I hear his voice, somewhat muffled.

"Why the diagnosis? Obviously you'd have to fit the criteria, to have the diagnosis..."

"I do fit the criteria," he breaths.

"Jane, no. It doesn't make any-"

He pulls back suddenly.

"It does, Lisbon! Because...I never feel it inside! You're supposed to feel it inside, aren't you? And I don't know if I do. I don't know if I _can_."

His expression, I note, is one of fear.

Unconstrained fear, as if he looks scared to hear my response, my answer.

"You're supposed to feel _what_ inside?," I query, but my voice comes out as a rasp. "Love? That's what you mean, isn't it?"

He nods, dully.

"Are you going to sit there, and try to convince me that some moron's assessment of you is correct, Jane? That you don't bond? That you _can't_ bond? That you didn't bond with your wife, with your baby girl? When I know that's not true? When I've been your friend for years, and can see how much you grieve for them, even now?"

And while I really didn't expect my words to spill forth with such frankness, nor to be so cleanly representative of my feelings, what happens next is even less expected. The rapid onslaught of his tears. No overt crying, not in the classic sense of snot and obvious weeping, obvious noise. When my brother Tommy was little, he'd scream out his crying. Deep sobbing, agonizingly loud gulps, his face red. It was always loud. It was always deeply physical, as if the kid had run a marathon. He'd tucker himself out crying.

But Jane? He's still.

Or _almost_ still.

His body barely moves, but somehow, he's crying. Even as he keeps almost completely still, almost completely quiet.

"Damnit, Jane! How long has this idea...been hurting you?"

How could he think that? How could such a brilliant man be brainwashed to even consider it a possibility?

_And for all these years, he's doubted that he's loved them? __I wonder how that has delayed his ability to heal. How that has deepened and complicated his sense of guilt._

"How long have you been...seriously considering this fucking stupid idea that you can't love someone? That you are incapable of feeling love, of showing it?"

"Maybe that's not the same thing, though, Lisbon! Maybe missing someone and loving someone isn't the same thing at all..."

His chest rises and falls a little too quickly for my liking, but that's about it. There is very little belying his pain save for the tears themselves. They spill down over his cheeks, wetting his face with a speed that is surprising. I reach out to touch his cheek, my heart matching his for speed and rate of pounding, pulsing beats.

But when I reach out to touch his face, he shrinks back, as if slapped.

"Jane, I know...there's something I'm missing here, even so. Something important."

He gives the smallest, choked laugh and the sound reflects the tears and the physical exertion of a body that has been ordered not to cry, despite its very need to do just that.

"I've told you everything, Lisbon. Everything that could matter!"

His body is telling me _no, no. _His body is telling me, _there's more. _Because he hasn't stopped shaking his head, _no. _And suddenly I am reminded of his assertion to me, a year back - that the body will always register and relay the truth.

_'Words won't always be truthful Lisbon... but the body finds it harder to lie.' _

I wrap my own arms around his back, securing the hold, not knowing what is wrong, just knowing that something obviously is wrong, so terribly wrong, so I close my eyes, and take a leap. Because I'll regret not ever asking him, when I had the chance... so much more than being wrong about this.

"You know you can talk to me, Jane. About anything. You _know_ that, don't you?"

Because If I'm wrong..._great, fine;_ if I'm not wrong, and I let this go, if I dismiss this...

"Lisbon, please. I don't...know, I don't know what's wrong with me today. Why I'm so upset. I'm sorry."

_I can only pray that I'm wrong about this. _

"Patrick...I don't want you to be sorry! You have _nothing_ to be sorry about."

His eyes squeeze shut then, as if upset by his very name, his hands coming up to wrap around his midsection as if cold.

"Jane, did something happen to you?"

He doesn't speak, but I feel his arms grab for mine with greater force, his fingertips pressing into the small of my back. I try again, telling myself over and over again that I'm wrong, I must have just gotten it wrong.

"Did something happen to you, when you were little? Is that it?," I whisper against his ear, waiting for his _no_, waiting for his _of course not!_

Waiting for his denial, and his indigence.

Instead, he's shaking his head back and forth, over and over and over again.

_no, no, no, no, no, no._

"Please don't go there, _please don't go there..._," he states, his voice too shrill to be just air.

Just air, barely more.

"I don't...I can't, no, it's not like that..._...,_" and I can sense how hard he's trying. How damn hard he's trying to get it out.

I feel sick.

"Something like what happened to Thea? Something like that?," I supply, sounding less queasy than I feel.

But then I almost wish I hadn't, because as soon as the question is posed he lets out a cry that is not quite a scream and not quite a sob.

The sound itself makes my bowels go cold, and Jane is suddenly clinging to me, something I didn't expect at all. I expected anger, possibly. I expected him to get angry that I pushed him at all. Maybe I expected him to shout, get out of the car. Not this. Not this grasp on me that is so tight, I can only suspect he's worried I'd somehow..._what?_ Pull away?

Reject him?

I tighten my own hold now instead, and try pry apart his hands, just a little bit, to let my fingers mingle with his own.

I haven't held someone like this since I was a kid myself. Since my brothers were small and needed that sort of connection.

_God this hurts._

"If I could track down the person who hurt you like that, Jane, if I could fix this...," but my voice trails off to nothing. Because I can't fix this anymore than I can bring back Jane's wife, his little child.

"Not...not like_ that_," he says, after a moment - and his voice is so light that I have to strain to hear him. "No one did _that _to me."

"Then why did you respond like someone had?," I test, my voice matching his own for volume and speed, and his breath is hot and frantic against my neck, so I decide to back off for now. I rub his back in the hopes that I can calm him down, just a bit. _Just a little bit._

_I've never seen him like this. __Not like this._

"It wasn't the same thing, Lisbon!"

"But someone did...something. Something bad. Something that scared you."

A beat, a pause, and I'm waiting for him to deny it, to deny it all again:

"Mmm. _Yes."_

_His hands are still shaking._

"But not sexual abuse," I clarify, needing to know, and using the words he has only insinuated, but has not actually used.

He looks like a trapped animal, wavering beneath that damn seat belt. Back and forth, back and forth. Antsy.

"I don't think so..."

It's not the response I was hoping for, and certainly not the one I had been expecting.

"What do you mean...you don't_ think_ so?"

I realize then that he doesn't know what he wants to do. He doesn't know what he needs. When he swallows, I hear the sound - harsh and accusatory in the quiet of the car.

"I don't know. I don't know._ I don't think it counts as that!_"

His voice is suddenly shrill. And part of me, a good sized chunk of me actually, can't really believe that it is Patrick Jane's voice that is tied to that sound, that horrible sound of near-panic.

_God, what happened to you, sweetheart?_

"Okay, okay. It's okay. We're not going to talk about it anymore today. Alright?"

"Not ever. I don't think I want to think about it anymore, Lisbon. I don't think I should. I can't even, _I can't even_..."

His face is suddenly coated in a sheen of sweat. And when I do, in fact, touch his forehead - he jerks as if I've hit him. I note absently that his flesh is cool - not hot, as I had assumed.

"I won't be any use on this case, if I can't keep it controlled," and he's so upset now, I realize that he's actually begging me to understand. As if he doesn't want me to be _disappointed_ in him.

Jane looks down at his lap as I try to meet his eyes - the rigid posturing now back. I've never seen him look so insecure. I've never seen him look so _unlike_ himself. I've pushed him, on a hunch. And all I've managed to do is make him more upset. More upset than I've ever seen him be. And absolutely nothing is resolved. I still don't know a damn thing. I just know that someone hurt him as a little kid. Terrified him. And what the hell has happened to terrify a little kid that much?

"It's okay," I repeat, dumbly - stupidly. I feel useless. Stupid and useless.

I certainly haven't made anything better for him.

His eyes are now red and swollen, as if he's been sobbing in an overt fashion, and not in this almost hollow, detached way that scares me. That scares me simply because there is such absence of emotion, actually, in that almost dissociative way he's staring ahead in his attempts to tune me out.

And his crying. How someone learns to cry like that - so soundlessly, so absent from the event itself - I'll never know.

He shakes his head,_ no, no, no_.

_No. You're right, Jane. It's not okay. _

* * *

I take him back to the motel.

He doesn't argue.

It certainly doesn't feel like a victory. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Title - Little Stars - Part 15  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **A little more experimental, this. You'll see what I mean. Hopefully you guys can follow my rambling mind. More Jane/ Lisbon interaction in the following chapter. I promise :)

* * *

_"What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen."_ ~Cynthia Ozick

* * *

I hate motel soap.

It dries out my skin to such a degree that I always end up scratching my torso, arms, and belly to the point of raised welts, and occasionally - bleeding patches. Just like, say, a kid on her first sleep away camp experience.

You know the type.

That city kid, that Chicago city brat, who really didn't realize she was peeing in the patch of poison ivy until it was just a _little bit_ too late?

Yes, I was that kid. Of course that was_ then_, and I had 'childhood ignorance' to use for my all around defense, especially as the eldest child and only girl born into an Irish, though now naturalized, American family. One that (at that particular point in time) seemed to consider a rather substantial outdoor adventure as a peanut packed, hot dog eatin' trip to Wrigley Field.

(_As a three year old, no brothers yet on the scene, I can recall the huge excitement I felt at going to see the "bears" for the first time. Decked out in a red sweater, my hair french braided, baseball cap slung low on my face to keep my white nose and cheeks from burning - all the while I gabbled on and on out about the animals I would soon be seeing - my mind supplying images of honey colored Winnie-the-Poohs that would chuck out the aforementioned treats that my father and mother had described to me all morning. And then - nothing but the field, the men, the artificially bright green turf? Not a *single* dancing baby bear in sight? How disappointed I had been as a little kid to learn that the Chicago Cubs were a sports team, and not an actual troupe of tricycle peddling bears in costumes and frilly ruffled neck adornments!_).

Yeah. Childhood ignorance. I could use that excuse as a three year old, an eight year old.

_*Not any longer, genius!*_

I need to bring my own soap, my own stuff. This motel stuff is complete crap.

When will I learn?

* * *

I towel dry, patting my skin - not rubbing - and frown at the small peals of blood that plume into the all-too-white towel. Wiping the mirror, semi fogged, with the relatively clean edge of the material - I stare.

_And stare_.

My skin looks a little strange in this light.

"Boss?"

It's Grace, lightly rapping against the door.

"Mmm, yeah. I'm almost out, Grace," I respond lightly, feeling a tad guilty for taking so long. I'm usually pretty quick at this whole bedtime routine... thing. Tonight though, my stomach is swollen with the gnawing, chewing pain of an ulcer flare up, and the heat from the water has been helping to reduce some of the pain. Blotting just enough to sop up a little of the water still lingering, I comb my hair with a wide toothed comb, once, and let it be. It's going to be in full ringlets by tomorrow morning, but I can't be bothered. A quick change into a white waffle shirt and gray sweats, and I'm basically done.

When I finally clamour on out and over to my bed, I see that Van Pelt is talking to Rigsby at the door.

"In or out, you guys. Let's try _not_ to invite every mosquito in a 10 mile radius into this room, please," though I grant Grace a slight smile to let her know that I'm not really annoyed. She's extraordinarily sensitive to perceived criticism, and frankly, I like Van Pelt. She's a good person, a good agent. Sensitive, yes - but that's part of what I like about her; that she _is_ so sensitive, so kind hearted, and yet still decided to go into law enforcement. It can't be easy.

_Though, to be fair, it's a valid concern...my worry over her sensitivity._

Perhaps I should actually worry about Rigsby, however, since he's sharing his own room alongside Cho and Jane. (The operative name here, of course, being Jane.)

_God bless them all._

Tonight he seems unduly inhibited as well - hesitating before bypassing the concrete pavement of the exterior and braving the girls-only suite.

"You're invited in, Rigsby. I've just given you permission. No worries," I state wryly, while the man seems to re-animate again, losing the somewhat indecisive look that had previously held his features hostage.

"Uhh, sorry boss. I know you guys are getting ready for bed and all - just, you know-"

_Just talking to Grace. Yeah, I get it bud..._

"It's not like anyone is actually sleeping though yet, is that it?," I clarify.

He gets it. He gets it immediately.

"Oh, no! I mean, he's...he _was_ sleeping when I got in, or when Cho got in, anyway," and Rigsby is nodding his head like that's all there is to the story.

"He had his dinner?"

Rigsby's mouth takes on an almost sour-lemon look, and I try not to wince, not least of all due to the fact that I feel as if I am inquiring about a little boy. Talking about a little boy, my little boy if I had one ('_is he asleep? has he eaten?'_) and not our grown (_whatever the hell that means in Jane's case_) consultant.

Jane would really have a field day with this if he knew the degree we went to ensure his continued mental stability. That, or else he'd be offended. I'm not quite sure which way it would play out just yet.

"Yeah, well. He woke up at around...9. So that's pretty remarkable in and of itself, isn't it? Still looked _off_ though. Pale. Said he wasn't too hungry."

I try not to glower at that statement, and the implication. Rigsby quickly jolts into smooth-over mode.

"Oh, _no, no_ - he ate it boss - the Italian stuff? Like, most of the garlic bread and made a fair dent in the pasta, too. Told me to tell you..._'thanks'_."

"Okay. Well then...?," and my hands stop their tangled, irritated combing on locks that will _just. not. behave_. "Is there something else we should be going over right now, then?"

He gets that I'm confused as to why he's _still here_ if there isn't something to discuss about Jane. Because if Jane is truly, all things considered, 'fine' then the only thing remaining is...something case related.

Grace gives me an awkward little smile, a tight lipped smile, and starts unravelling a pair of black dress pants, and a three quarter length floral blouse. Preparing for the next day, obviously.

Her movements seem stilted.

_Apprehensive._

"We were just throwing some ideas around. Rigsby thinks, well...," and her eyes dart over to Rigsby, who quickly intercedes.

"Actually Jane was thinking about the first two victims. That number... for the kids help line?"

I stop my combing routine, and chuck the Goody plastic brush in the general direction of my tote bag, scowling at the missed shot when the brush hits the edge of my bed instead.

"Yes, which would have been _something_ to reconsider if all of the other victims had used a help line," I begin, slowly. "I've already discussed this with Jane. He knows just as well as everyone else that this angle was already explored. Extensively. Nothing, going back over a_ two year period_, shows up on the Castleton's bill."

Rigsby sighs. "Jane thinks that we should check out Dorothea's friends. Thinks Dorothea _has_ called. Not from home, though. Too scared to call from home."

I growl at my comforter. A barely-there growl, low in my throat. Because the suggestion would make sense_ if_ this child had friends. So far, sadly, we have no friends-angle to pursue, and it's beyond depressing. And I don't deal well with depressing feelings. I hate wallowing in sadness, feeling ineffectual and trapped. Depressing situations make me angry the more I dwell on them.

"And this is the avenue he wants to explore, come hell or high water, because everything else is coming up as a dead end, Rigsby. He'd rather obsess over numbers and possibilities than face the fact that we're hitting the walls here. That this culprit didn't seem to select his victims from the same primary source. Or, if there _is a pattern_, it's something far less obvious. But even if we do run with this, if we don't find play dates and dialled out phone messages from a neighbours house, Jane is going to want us to pursue calls from her school, or from_ mall payphones _next. It won't stop! We could exhaust our time just thinking of potential scenarios where the kids _could_ have made phone calls, and that's just a hunch for _one_ angle out of a thousand angles we could still explore!"

I need this...dialogue. I need this interplay of skepticism, contrasted with Rigsby's insistent idealism. A counter-point in the debate. It's logical. And I appreciate logic. Because truth be told, I'm just as queasy about what could be happening to this child, even now, and what she could still face before we find her.

_If we find her..._

But if I think about _that_, I'm screwed. I won't be able to act. I'll become frozen by fear and sickness.

"It's a 'Jane-hunch' though, boss. That's almost as...good as 100%, isn't it?"

"Jane is certain that this is the link. I get it. But save for the first two victims, the subsequent children didn't seem to have reached out to anyone by phone or by email correspondence."

Rigsby bites down on his lip. Two top teeth come over, pressing in, and making a bare indentation. Firm, a few seconds. Then a shrug and a semi cautious:

"He thinks they_ all_ made the call though, that's the thing. That the authorities missed the other dial outs. Didn't track them down because, well, the kids - the older kids? - they _wouldn't_ have called from home. They were smart and too aware of the possibility that they could get caught if they called from home. They knew their dads would find out, or maybe they were scared they'd be overheard."

I rub my eyes.

"Is he up now?"

Rigsby shakes his head for a reply.

"No, he...he took some...prescription, he said. You know...his sleeping stuff? He took a few of those with... well...he's _out_. Probably until tomorrow morning," the man adds then, uneasily.

I don't miss the hesitation; that special parsing, as if to delay the inevitable.

"Out with it."

His eyes look up regretfully, like a cratered, pitted moon. Not sad, exactly, but full of indentations, shapes, forms.

_Awareness he'd rather not have._

"What's going on?"

"It's...nothing."

Van Pelt has stilled her organizing, her planning. Caught between wanting to tidy, wanting to plan, just as I want to order things in my head, and Jane wants to fix things in his heart. So even though I'm in pajamas and sock clad, I walk towards the door, motioning for Rigsby to follow as I slip on my shoes, grab at my keys.

"We'll be about 5, 10 minutes Grace."

The redhead gives a soft, _"alright"_ and a tentative smile before I see her click off her bedside light.

I lock the door, and Rigsby follows me to the SUV.

* * *

"Boss," he attempts quickly as I start the motor. "Everything's fine."

For some bizarre reason, I'm cold. Chilled. It's odd, this fluctuating heat and its opposite: suffocating days that almost infuse me with a fogginess, a sleepiness that makes the nights seem cruel when they wake me up in shivery awareness of just how little progress we have made. How few leads we have to go on, even with Jane on our team, obsessing away and drawing out clues from the air, almost.

The cool nights are more than rousing; they also cause that bite of emotion to register a little more acutely. A little _too_ acutely, if my yearning for heat and fogginess and the sleepy infusion of too-hot days is any tell. I can't help but wonder if the nights - with its darkness and its quietude - brings up murky pain from deeper holes.

_And not just for me, but for everyone._

There's something so much fuller and sensoral about hurt that is felt at night, with nothing but the moonlight to cloak you. The feeling of being alone seems undeniable then. As if love, protection, companionship are all waking dreams of the day.

_Emotional lies we tell ourselves to keep going..._

I wonder if this is how it felt for Dorothea, alone, in that large, frilly bed. That _obscene_ bed, with sheets that offered no protection from a monster. A monster she just happened to call Daddy. I can't help but wonder if that frantic sense of isolation is most at home in the dark, or if the reasons why Jane cannot sleep well have just as much to do with residual fatigue as it does with feeling comforted by the bustle of the office. Comforted by the voices and sounds of a building, alive with human chatter and human warmth.

Rigsby exhales then, pulling me from my thoughts but otherwise remains silent.

"Well, something is off. I know you, Wayne. I know _Jane_. And I know when my agent's are covering for him."

Rigsby turns to stare out of the SUV window, his head tilted, his eyes uncertain.

"So...the question remains. What's going on?"

He turns back to me, his features reflecting... cautiousness.

"It's not that we're _covering_, really..."

I nod, but gesture with my hand that he should proceed.

"It's...he's, he _never_ has really slept all that well."

I know this already.

This is not new information. And my face must reflect my confusion. What this point has to do with anything, really.

"The last few nights...after Cho and I have gotten ready for bed, he'll just head off and read case notes and read those Rilke books in the washroom. With the bathroom lights on, of course. He's...thoughtful. I mean, he's _quiet._ He obviously doesn't want to keep us up, and he doesn't really make any noise...I mean, we can sleep and everything, but-"

"So he's reading case notes. He's allowed to do that. I agree, it would be better if he got more sleep-"

Rigsby interrupts then, needing to impart some aspect of his story that I'm not getting, apparently.

"No, I mean, he doesn't just stay up for a _few hours_ and read. Sometimes he stays in there the_ entire night_. He'll take in a blanket, even. His pillow from his bed. Cho found him asleep on the floor yesterday at 6:30 in the morning! Curled up, the case file open. Notes scribbled on yellow paper - ideas he hasn't yet shared!"

I bite my lip, sensing Rigsby's desperation, and try to envision the scenario in my mind.

"You've never seen him _really_ wired, boss," he continues. "Or maybe you have, but believe me...sharing a room with him is a different experience. Sharing a room with him... on _a case_ is different," he adds, as if sensing my thoughts, my _'oh, I guess the man just didn't spend half a week recuperating at my apartment, then!...' _

"Besides, it's not even every case. Red John cases, sure - they were usually the triggers. He'd often just pace, and we would try to wind down, ya know? Just watch basketball or something, Cho and me, and it could be 11 pm, or even midnight, and Jane would still be wide awake, pacing, still totally dressed in his suit and shoes, and vest. Just walking up and down the entry way sometimes, and that was sort of unnerving, cause he'd do it for an hour, maybe even longer sometimes. But it's not just the pacing, boss, or even the general obsessing. It's that he doesn't seem to get how it_ looks_. To us. Just pacing like that, just obsessing."

I've never seen my agent so flustered before. Never so talkative, so jittery. And nothing that he's mentioned so far sounds exceptionally worrisome. Not for Jane, given what we've known about him since our first official case together as a team. He didn't sleep much then, either. And while the behaviour does speak to long standing issues that I know need to be addressed, most likely professionally, for Jane to properly heal... nothing thus far sounds as self destructive as what I had been worrying about.

"I'll talk to him, Rigsby. Of course I will. I can imagine how tense the room would get if he's pacing up and down and holing himself up in the bathroom all night."

Rigsby shakes his head quickly then, as if to dispel something that I've just mentioned.

"No, that's just the thing, boss! He hasn't been pacing at all. Not this time. Sometimes, before, he'd talk over the case with me, with Cho...and he'd sound almost manic. Like bipolar or something, you know? And sometimes, by the next day, I could see how hard he was trying to hold himself back, hold back the intensity. Like, when he would talk to you sometimes, and I could see it in his whole being...that enforced calm, because the night before he could have been _wild_. But this case... it's not like how he was when we'd be working on a Red John case, or when we were looking for Frye, or on any other case we've worked with him. It's different this time. He's not _sharing_ anything at all, he's not pacing. He's...quiet. He will go to the bathroom once we're done with showers and everything, and that light will flick on, and it's...totally still. Almost all night long."

"So he's...less intense? Less...manic? And this worries you? That _can't_ be all there is to it..."

"Well Cho noticed it first, actually, but I can see it too. He seems sort of depressed, boss. Sometimes. Not around you, really. He's holding it in around you, I can tell. He'll smile, he'll try to appear...you know, like...'Patrick Jane.' But these last four days he's been...lost to us. Barely says goodnight. Doesn't even try to_ hide the fact_ that he's not planning on sleeping in his bed. And tonight, you know...after he ate, I can't be sure...I mean, don't bring it up with him, because I'm not absolutely _positive_ but-"

"Rigsby! Just...tell me what the hell happened!"

"Ok, _ok_," he interjects, aware that he probably sounds all too manic himself, "okay... I just thought I heard him get sick. Then later, when he came out, after his shower...he was subdued and all, sure, but I asked him if he still felt sick, feverish - you know - like he was when staying with you?, and he said no. He said, _"no, I feel fine," _but I'm pretty damn positive he had been throwing up not five minutes earlier, Lisbon."

_Damnit._

"Alright. I will speak with him first thing tomorrow morning. Tonight, when you get in, please - _even if he's reading, isolated himself in the bathroom_ - please just knock on the door and inform him that I wish to speak with him. I mean, if he's pulling that stunt again. If he is, I'll talk to him tonight. If not, I'll talk to him alone, before breakfast tomorrow. If he's gone to bed already, don't mention anything."

Rigsby looks anxious, as if he's afraid Jane will connect the dots. Is afraid Jane will not only connect the dots but will be_ oh-so aware_ as to whom first came to me, and when, and what details were provided.

"Rigsby - put it out of your mind. That sense of betrayal you're feeling? Push that feeling away. Letting Jane run himself into the ground, for wont of a better term, is _NOT_ being loyal to him. It's not really being his friend. If he doesn't get _that_ right away, then all that tells you and me both is that he's in waaay over his head. So much so that he's forgotten how a healthy person even tries to live. Never mind the fact that the barest requirements I outlined for him, if he wished to stay on this case, is what is concerning you and Cho both: he's not eating enough, and he's making no effort to sleep."

The look of guilt on Rigsby's face is unmistakable.

"Look...I'm not saying he's flaunting our agreement, Rigsby, but he's certainly not sticking to it either, is he?"

"I know boss...but he's gonna be mad. I mean, he's going to feel like he has to _act_ all the time, and he's already stressed. I don't want to make that worse..."

Rigsby trails off then, his face contorted into such bare and undiluted compassion that I am reminded (_not for the first time_) of just how much this large, tall man makes me smile, makes the grittiness of this job easier.

In fact, sometimes Rigsby reminds me of some herbivorous dinosaur, or something: always feeding, that's the joke, but certainly not lacking in sweetness and concern for others. It makes me proud to have him as an agent on my team, even if I know his nature is his and his alone, having nothing to do with my influence. Even so, being reminded of the decency of this team, and the hearts and minds of the people that I work with is... grounding.

_Strengthening._

Jane, too, I trust on so many levels. Certainly in every way that relates to myself,_ my_ person-hood; his authenticity and honesty when he spoke about always being there for me, translates and encompasses Van Pelt, Rigsby, Cho. _I know it._

I simply wish he could look out for himself with an equal degree of vigor, and resolute action. He'll go to the ends of the earth for some, but for himself...he seems to vacillate between an almost removed placidity - such as when cat napping, drinking tea regardless of the scenario, or playing sudoku at the worst times. But then, in the next moment, that false sense of self fades away and is replaced by an obviously deep seated disregard for his own being, his own safety.

Because I've seen the man continually engage others who are violent... as if begging to be hit, to be attacked. I first chalked up such actions to a certain impulsivity, and his need to be right damn the consequences, though I'm now convinced that he continually aims to tempt fate. To stir up trouble with the most reactive of our suspects for no other reason than he_ doesn't really_ give a flying fig what happens to himself! At times, it borders on looking...parasuicidal.

"Alright, you know what? Let him do whatever he wants to do tonight...and I'll talk with him tomorrow, no matter what. He already is looking tired again, and I can use that as my excuse for talking to him. I know what it's like when he's sulking," I give Rigsby a reluctant smile to let him know that I'm half teasing Jane, and not casting aspersions on his character.

"Thanks boss," Rigsby mutters warmly, as equally relieved that I'll be checking in with Jane, as appreciative of the fact that his own prodding to have the situation checked out will be minimized, if not completely discounted.

_At least as far as Jane will know._

"Get some sleep yourself, alright?," and Rigsby gives me a slight wave, a somewhat relieved smile. I'm reminded of the terse, tense smile Van Pelt passed my way just minutes before, and feel somewhat disappointed that my agents are still so inhibited with their emotions. I had always hoped that by coming forward with their concerns... the burden of worry would be lifted, somewhat. Because that's the responsibility of a boss, of a leader...

_And lately I feel as if I am failing my duties..._

* * *

The fuzzy softness of the dark becomes prickly with unwelcome light, and I find myself roused to full consciousness.

At first, I feel disoriented - _I'm sharing a room with Grace, not Cho, Rigsby and Jane - _so where is all this light coming from?

I blink a little then, rapidly and fluttery, and try to rid my sight of dryness - willing moisture and clarity to return to my vision. While I wait for my eyes to adjust, I listen attentively to the noises of the room; the electric hum of the air conditioner unit, and the delicate softness of Van Pelt's exhalations, and turnings, as she rotates within her bed.

The room opposing ours - filled with the boys (so to speak) is also, seemingly, still. Quiet enough that I am fairly certain that everyone must be more or less _okay_. At least twice in the last year, I have heard the pained cries of a consultant in the throes of a nightmare, and while Jane is not - in my limited experience - excessively loud when he's tormented by his night visions, I have always seemed to rouse before anyone else to those haunted and pained sounds.

In some ways, that's good - as it bypasses the necessity of anyone else getting overly involved, or having to come and _get me_.

It has allowed for me to deal with Jane, with minimal involvement from the others. And while that typically involves a routine better suited to a mother comforting a small child, rather than an unwed female agent dealing with her widowed male consultant - I'll do whatever works, even if that means supporting Jane with the physical contact of a hug, despite my own natural issues with being so huggy.

Because Jane is a tactile person; one heavily grounded and assured by even the most basic of physical touches. A quick pat of my hand, or if need be... a more cloistered and full embrace of arms swung low and firm around his back, holding on. He calms down right away then, and goes back to sleep with very little trouble. Nevermind minimal embarrassment the following day, so long as I reach him before the nightmares reach a chaotic level, and fully wake Cho or Rigsby.

Tonight, though - I hear nothing. Nothing from Jane, or anyone else.

At least, I don't hear anything for a solid minute or two. But as I listen a little more fully, trying to disregard the constant sounds that one is likely to hear in motels - sounds of breathing and tossing and turning and fans - I suddenly catch onto the sound of something small, and hushed and..._mewling_. And I realize then that the reason I had failed to 'hear' the noise at all had more to do with _improperly classifying_ the sound as, indeed, that of an animal. A feral cat, perhaps, storming the back parking lot for ripped apart garbage bags, maybe.

The mewling, the _keening_, is fairly constant now that I focus. It is also particularly heartbreaking. There is something so pressingly doleful in the sound that I shake my head and rise...perplexed as to how I could so fully disregard it a minute earlier. Toss it off as the cries of some simple, hapless creature looking for an evening meal.

Putting on my jacket, and my runners, I secure my hair in an elastic swiped from my bedside table, and gently pull the motel room door shut, careful not to let the bolt catch in the base and click loudly, wakening my companion.

My eyes expertly scan the asphalt - that glittering terrain of a 2 am parking lot cast in moonlit oil stains - that rainbow glistening of light cast upon oil cast upon pavement.

The air smells fresh, crisp, and I suddenly wonder if it has rained tonight. There's a sense of something real and alive and freshly broken apart cutting through the air. Not so much _rain_, as the reality of something powerful: metallic perhaps, and almost heavy.

The streets look cloudy black, as if steeped in india ink, or painted in wine - the colour so dark that I fail to discern as to what I'm seeing, actually. It could be blackness, or redness.

_But it's all over the streets. _

A couple of halogens flicker from their overhanging lamp posts. _On, off, on_, sort of _off_, and then they flicker back _on_ again. The mewling increases, and the darkness of the night sky merges with the metallic edge of the air and is suddenly infused with a cry that erupts into a sob.

A sob that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

"Is anyone out here?," I call, almost timidly, feeling grounded by the wine black streets that smell of iron and tar, but overall woozy - the crying sounding dreamlike and discombobulated - this mewling of a kitten, or an animal that I'm almost convinced is _not_ a kitten at all but a...

_...little boy._

About 100 meters off, actually and hunched down low by a lamp post, his little legs bare, and his body covered by a long, white sleep shirt. He's wearing small canvas shoes, and his hair falls in soft waves across his upper arms and around to his neck in a golden cusp.

He sobs into his hands.

I run over to the child quickly, my heart in my mouth.

"Honey! Hey, hey..._little guy!_," and I try to console him with the sounds of an adult - the sounds of an adult in authority - although I do not touch the little, cowering body.

His hair is somewhat long - though not long enough that I doubt the child _is in fact a he, a male -_ projected in his aura of boyishness, of snotty-little-brother-ness that surrounds him.

"Hey sweetie, my name is Teresa Lisbon," I begin again, after my heart rate slows its ascent, just a bit. "Can... you look up at me honey, and tell me your name? Or tell me where your mommy and daddy are?"

The little tow head shakes back and forth, those white blond curls dancing about as his body thrums out and informs me silently yet insistently: _no, no!_

"Alright, buddy," I exhale sharply, feeling ridiculously unprepared for this situation despite my ten-plus + years in law enforcement.

"But I can't leave you out here in the parking lot, sweetie. So I need you to get up now, okay? And we'll go on over to the main office if you want, and get you some water and something to eat, if you want. Are you hungry?"

The little head looks up and I see that the child's cheek is smudged with ruby-looking blood. It looks dried, which could be the case - as I can't see a mark on the boy himself.

"Oh sweetie, are you hurt?," and I reach out for him without thinking, only drawing back at the last moment. After all, I don't know this child from Adam, and I don't know how he will respond to my touch.

Instead, I indicate his cheek and face with my fingertips. His skin is so translucent that I feel off put - almost scared by the ephemeral nature of those soulful eyes and that watchful face, so white it almost seems unreal.

"Did someone hurt you, honey?"

The little head nods up and down then, shakily - huge blueberry eyes finally meeting my own eyes, and swelling with tears.

"He bit me in the chest," the little boy cries, and as if I cannot understand the preceding sentence, he then points to his small body with one small hand, still swollen with the pudginess of toddler-hood. It's only then that I realize, sickly, that this child is probably only three or four years of age.

At most.

_Little more than a baby, really_.

"Someone bit you?," I rasp, my mouth drying out like cotton baton that has been dipped into alcohol. The dryness is caustic, astringent, and is quickly becoming of a chemical nature in my mouth. The taste of bitter heat and pungent bile flutters across my tongue, and I'd kill for some spearmint gum or anything to take away this overpowering taste of reality.

"Who bit you, sweetheart?"

"I was trying to catch the doggy! He found me and he bit me in here...deep in here," and he taps his chest, twice,"where I live," he adds after a moment, while the pale hand crumples up over his heart, resigned.

My eyes wander across the parking lot, feeling totally lost and entirely off kilter.

"And after he bit me in the heart, he bit my dolly and took her body away."

The child then lets out a wail, as if this news has shattered his mind into pieces. As if this news is of such a tragic kind, that he may not ever _stop crying_. He may just simply_ decide to never stop crying, ever again, amen._

"He took her away from me. I can't get her back," he whispers, and then holds up the plastic head. I see it, starkly: the ruby coating of old paint, or what I can only assume is red paint, since it's coming from a doll. _A thing._

Not a being.

Oddly, though, it matches the same colour as the red splashed against his cheek, his throat. His left hand is still curled around the plastic head, and when he pulls it up again, he likewise brings it up to his cheek, and kisses the edge of plastic as he does so, crying into the open and decapitated plastic skull.

That horrible red is still leaking from the doll's face, and my reaction is visceral and childish - rooted in primordial fears of death and attack and urging me to RUN! To _RUN AWAY NOW!_

I want to run away, but I can't.

It wouldn't be right.

No matter how spooky this night is, with the air that smells like iron... I can't run away.

_*It wouldn't be right.*_

I can't leave this child alone. Everyone else has left him all alone. I can't desert him too.

"Honey, I need you to put the rest of your dolly on the ground, and then take my hand. I will take you over to that office, there," and I point to the 24 hour **OPEN** sign, glittering an electric, hungry red in the black of the night. "I will stay right with you until we find your family, okay little man?"

Wrong words to say, apparently, because the little boy starts to wail then, though his eyes remain trained on mine so intently, despite the noise streaming from his mouth that I am reminded of my youngest brother_ Tommy, who - at four years of age... _

_choked on a piece of pizza and even amidst his panic, the spastic shaking of his head, kept his eyes trained on my eyes. _

_I laid him down on his back, and deftly felt around in his little mouth..._

_... with those milky baby teeth, and I looked for anything! _

_Anything to tug!_

_ANYTHING to free from his throat!_

_And then my fingertips felt the raggedy edges of clotted cheese, and I pulled..._

_... and I inhaled in time with Tommy..._

_who wheezed in air as if it were the sweetest essence on the planet..._

"No, I need to find the rest of her! I need to find her and put her back together again!," and the child is, _make no mistake about it_, screaming at me.

He's not enraged... he's _frantic._

He's frantic in the same way that Tommy was frantic to breathe in air. The look in his eyes, the tilting gasping motions of his head and the bundled rigidity in his limbs... is identical.

My eyes reluctantly break apart from this little white-blond child with eyes the colour of berries - and scour the parking lot.

_NOW_ - I can see what I had missed before. The red smudges all over the child's knees, and all over his feet. The tinged red soaking into his hair. The sullied red edge of the shirt, now so vitally RED, as if he had dipped his hands and legs in paint. Stroked it onto his body with glee, for there is too much RED to be cross contamination. There is too much red to be present for one merely nipped by a dog. No dog can bring that much red up from the body, from any well of flesh. Not in a single nip.

"Honey, did someone hurt you?," I repeat, feeling faint with horror and an inconceivable sense of this **_can't be real. good god this can't be real. _**

"The doggy took her body away from me. I need to find her. She's my dolly. I love her. I need her!," and I'd almost laugh, in another life or reality, if need and want and a toddler's affections for a doll were contrasted against a case so stark with a poverty of human love and decency that murdered children and abused little shells of bodies would remain.

This time, however, I can't feel anything but horror equal to the horror I always feel upon finding the remains of a child.

"Alright sweetie...I'll help you find her after we get you checked out. Just take my hand, alright?"

The boy is shaking his head back and forth again, and the motion is familiar - _so damn familiar_:

_'no, no, no, no, no...'_

I've seen the motion, I've seen the eyes, and somewhere, _somewhere_, I've seen this doll, her face, her coiled perfect hair, wetted down by red and horror and something all too ugly to even have a human name, a human word. A spoken sound.

The little boy wheezes then, and pulls away, almost regretfully. "You can't help me. I let the doggy get her. And I was supposed to keep her safe!"

**_'no, no, no, no, no...'_**

"I'm sure you tried your best, sweetheart. But you are just a little boy. You can't fight off a big dog. They have large, sharp teeth and big paws. And look, honey - see...the doggy bit you too, didn't he? You were already hurt!"

Those eyes, those eyes I have known for a thousand years...those eyes so well etched into my mind. And that head! So foreign in its infancy, so aged in its expression. I know this face, these eyes.

I know this child.

**_'No, no, no, no, no...'_**

"I can't let her go, Teresa. I can't. I can't say goodbye to her! I love her too much! I can't say goodbye! I'll close my eyes and fall asleep forever if you make me say goodbye!"

The air is cold and heavy with grief.

How could I have so badly mistaken the scent of blood for rain, and grief - cold though it is - for freshness?

How could I have mistaken the sound of a weeping, sobbing child for a mewling, feral cat? How could I have not heard and not seen, until I heard the sounds of heartbreak and saw the sight of blood?

Those eyes, too. I knew how they would look before I could even see them, though that makes no sense! I knew what I would find, even when that little head was tucked deep, deep away and hidden underneath those curls and the misleading light of the lamppost.

I knew _exactly_ what face I would see, even when that face was tucked down, so that all I could first take in was a golden halo over-top that fine and noble cranium.

_And how do I comfort this little boy?_

"It's okay, sweetie. I can help you find a new dolly. We'll get you a new dolly."

At my words, the boy lets the plastic head fall to street. His eyes, before like fresh fruit - are now rotten.

"I don't want a new dolly," he whispers, forlorn, though I can see that he _**gets. it.**_

He gets the undeniable reality: _his dolly has been torn to shreds. __Her body is too frayed to be sewn back together again._

He nods as if he can read my thoughts.

"She lost too much stuffing, didn't she?," the little boy states, without hope.

"She did, honey. I'm so sorry."

"The doggy bit her too much, didn't he? Far too much, and I couldn't get her back together again. Humpty Dumpty fell, and she did too."

I nod at the simple comparison.

"I'll never have her back, will I?," and this question, so oddly pleading - as if I alone can turn back time. I swallow down a rock of hurt and vicarious grief for this child that I have never known and always known.

"I'll help you find the other dolly. If you want," the boy tests, carefully - his voice dying off into something accepting of terror and blood, even though I'd wish that he'd always fight against darkness.

"I'd like that, honey. You know what the different dogs look like. You know what breed we are looking for, don't you?"

His eyes still look haunted. He only wants his dolly back.

_We both know it's too late for that..._

"This puppy, with the new dolly... isn't mean. When he bites the next dolly, he won't make her bleed. Not like my dolly. The doggy who bit my dolly made her bleed and bleed. All that was left of her was _RED_. There was no white left, there was no gold left. Or pink. Just red."

My hand covers his hand: big over tiny, and I realize when I feel his skin, and feel the dampness surging forth... that his wrists are likewise RED.

Gushing out red.

_How did I not see the red all over his wrists, before?_

"You didn't tell me that the doggy bit your hands, sweetheart!"

The little boy looks up at me and rolls back the sleeve of his sleep shirt.

"He bit my heart first. But then later, he came back. And he bit my arms."

He holds out his wrists, both freshly freed from the gauze-white material of his sleep shirt.

"He bit right through, Teresa. His fangs went all the way though. Can you see?"

_And I do._

Two lines of scar tissue grace the little boy's arms. Higher up. Much higher up. Near the crux of his elbow. Knotted, thick, angular and almost perfectly straight. Scar tissue from a knife, and not a dog bite at all.

"This isn't from a dog bite, honey! Who did this? Who _DID_ this to you?"

The little boy gives me a soft pat on my hand, as if consoling me. "He didn't mean to hurt me. He was trying to make it _stop_ hurting me. He was just trying to get all the poison out."

I let my fingertips grace over the ribbed, white scar tissue. The keloid scars. And I feel sick. Because some person _cut_ into this little boy. Cut into his flesh. _Tried to kill him._

"He just wanted me to go to sleep and be with my dolly, Teresa."

"Who, honey? _Who_?"

His small frame bends like a bundle of willow stalks beneath me, and I remind myself: _be careful with him, Teresa, he's fragile, he's ready to **break**... _So I release the tiny child and he steps back, as if testing the air, testing the fates. Testing to see if I will reach out for him, again, and keep him near. Keep him right by my side, protected from the night air that smells like iron and the pang of loss both so close in feeling, and so far away in time.

The little boy is white and blue now. White and blue and fading _away_.

"He wasn't trying to hurt me, Teresa. He was trying to set us free."

"WHO did this to you? Please tell me! I can't help you...and I can't help..._him_...unless you tell me!"

The little boy smiles more fully now, and takes another step back. "I told you who he is. I told you he was just trying to get all the poison out of our veins. So we would sleep and be with them. With Charlotte, and with Angela."

_Why did I release my arms and let this child float away from me? Away from me, and out into the night? _

I shouldn't have done so.

Now, every time I go to reach for him, he floats even further back and feels even cooler to my touch. His skin is cooled with air from an ancient time. Unreal and wisp-like. Like early morning dew.

_Or hor frost on trees._

Cold like the dead.

"You can't leave him, Patrick! He needs you inside his heart!," I plead, not wanting this child to realize he's _free_. Free to leave and go away forever. Somewhere where dogs don't rip apart dollies, and cause them to spill their stuffing. Somewhere where men don't cut through the arms of little boys, to rid them of poison and black inky pain. A pain that swirls and contaminates.

"He wants me to go away. He knows it's better if I go away."

"No," I beg now, "no, it's not! He just needs to keep you safe. He thinks he can keep you safe, if he puts you out of his mind, but if you go away..._if you go away and don't come back_, I don't think I'll ever be able to save him, Patrick! I don't think he'll ever stop bleeding. Jane needs to stop bleeding, Patrick! I need you here, to help me. To help him. To help you. _Please_."

The little boy stops his slow retreat and studies me, as if testing out my words to see if they contain an untruth.

"Lisbon?"

I startle at the name, at the sound his small mouth makes as he speaks and tests the word, uncertain but trying all the same.

"Lisbon?"

And suddenly the air is lifted up by light, and the scent of lilac talc powder. And the gentle and very-warm, very-here hands of Van Pelt as she shakes my shoulders. I pull away, and wave her off quickly, still haunted by my nightmarish correspondence with child-Jane. Still sullied by the prickly cold air of bloody pavement and an impish spectre with rotting eyes and red arms. A person I care for, wounded eternally, sporting black-red cuts that never scarred over.

Cuts that never began to heal at all...

_I wonder how much truth exists in that idea. I wonder how much, if any, healing Jane has really accomplished since his family was murdered..._

**5:22 AM**!, the neon blue lights of the Sony dream machine inform me, hyper lettering as always.

_Great._

"Boss, are you okay?"

I mutter out something that I hope Grace takes as being of the affirmative.

"Go back to sleep, Van Pelt. I'm _fine_," I whisper a moment later - already trying to relax again under the comforter and the disagreeable and lumpy motel pillow. It's not going well.

"You were...crying. It sounded like, well_...you sounded so strange, _boss," the young woman recounts as I close my eyes and will for my whirling mind to stop its whirling.

"Hmm?," I inquire, only semi-interested now as I'm still incredibly tired.

"Yeah," she mutters, "you were...tossing in your sleep. And crying. It sounded like a kitten, your crying. I could swear at first, I thought a kitten was crying outside. Or a child."

Grace flicks off the hall light then, and the room is shrouded again in a peaceful blue-blackness of an early morning - still dark but potent with hope for the sun and the day.


	16. Chapter 16

**Title - Little Stars - Part 16  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **to all my lovely reviewers...thank you, you guys! I will definitely try to respond more to each and every one of you in the upcoming days. :D

This chapter, btw, is also a little different in format compared to all the previous chapters.

For starters, it will be from _Jane's_ POV. There are certain directions I want to take this story, and frankly, it will be easier to do this by changing the POV for certain parts.

Warn you I will: I am by no means an expert at 'getting' Jane's personality. I have always identified much more strongly with Lisbon's temperament: a little impatient, not very huggy, stubborn, sometimes easily irked (boy, I'm making myself sound like a peach! XD) But I'll do my best with Patrick's chapter, here :D

_Remember:_ reviews are love! *wink wink*

* * *

"The bird a nest,  
the spider a web,  
man... friendship."

**_~William Blake _**

* * *

_I just want to sleep._

* * *

I hate sleeping pills.

But the alternative is shrinks.

And I hate seeing shrinks_ even more_ than I hate taking pills, really.

* * *

My current drug of choice is Temazepam.

Actually, it's not exactly a choice. Certainly not _my_ choice.

None of this is my choice.

_None of this_.

* * *

I was originally prescribed Zolpidem.

_Then I wound up in a psych ward. _

I've been wary of meds ever since.

* * *

Sophie thought the drug might have triggered the auditory hallucinations.

Apparently, it's a side effect.

Potentially.

In a _"small, but notable portion of the general population."_

That's the thing that amuses me most about these neurologists or psychiatrists or neuropsychobiowhatsits.

That's the thing that amuses me most about _doctors._

They'll act as if they are Gods, knowing everything, seeing ALL - but they don't know _that much, _to tell you the truth. Not on the important points.

Because if your shrink prescribes a drug that "_may or may not"_ have triggered an episode of psychosis, but can't tell you one way or the other if his substance was your trigger, well, believe me - you're going to be a little cautious around doctors from that point onwards, aren't you?

I mean, is that really so 'crazy'? To me, it's undeniably sane, because let's face it: distrust is a safety mechanism that is built into the minds of people who have had their trust tested, and broken.

Don't get me wrong. Psychosis would have been fine if I had been transported into some lovely dream world, where Angela and Charlotte still lived, still laughed, still loved me.

But I was drop kicked into hell, bypassing the limbo of shock.

And just how will psychosis play out? Well, it's variable in every case. A lot like drugs, you see: the side effects are not necessarily one hundred percent..._certain_. Even the 'all seeing' doctors don't know what to expect. _Not really._

A person in the midst of a psychotic break may hear chocolate bunnies from Zeta Reticuli talking to him through a loudspeaker.

_Or he may simply hear his murdered daughter scream her daddy's name. __Over and over again. __For hours without fail._

He may smell things that aren't really present. And it could be, say, the scent of citrus fruit. Maybe something pleasant and floral-like.

_Or he may smell blood and the scent of death. _

The lucky psychotic will see happy things that do not exist: unicorns, or elves. Pixie people. Maybe Leprechauns.

_The truly hapless lunatic will see flashes of mutilated family members in his drug induced stupor. Bonus points if he sees said family members while urinating in a dingy psych ward bathroom, not even five feet away from a burly 300 lb orderly named Bruce._

You just never know with these things.

* * *

Before the hospital, and before they died, I still was prone to nightmares.

I've had nightmares for my entire life, really. As far back as I can recall.

The difference back then was that they weren't constant. They weren't **_every. damn. night. _**And I could cope.

They weren't _excessive, _as far as pain goes.

* * *

When I was married, I self-medicated.

Doxylamine, mostly. OTC stuff, always.

It made me drowsy for the entire day, but it was fairly effective. It also had the benefit of completely numbing me out. I'd take it...and I'd stop feeling much of anything. I didn't like_ that_ side effect, and neither did Ange, and for those reasons alone - I tried the whole shrink routine. Mostly to appease my wife.

But then Angela and Charlotte were murdered, and I remembered this vital fact: that I could numb myself. At will. That I didn't have to necessarily die, to become numb. And suddenly, where before there had been fear - there was suddenly a new appreciation. There was this vibrant, undeniable attraction in the prospect of being numb. In just the very idea of continuing on without **any** sort of feeling.

_If I had to continue on at all,_ that was.

* * *

Three months after getting out of the hospital for cutting through both main arteries in my upper arms with a filleting knife, Sophie came to visit me.

To be fair to Sophie, I had been keeping contact with her for the bulk of the time. But each week, I withdrew a little more. Of course, the whole...situation...made me ashamed. And having to continually relive the experience of _why I did what I did_ - wasn't helping my self-esteem.

I was still residing in my place, in Malibu. And I was still numb.

_So apparently, being numb wasn't enough._

* * *

She asked me how I was doing, then proceeded to tell me (without pause) that she was "concerned."

She was "concerned" because, in the last 13 days:

a) I hadn't dropped by the clinic for our twice-weekly sessions, as promised. _"As mandated in the terms of your release." _

b) I hadn't responded to her voice mail messages when she had called, inquiring as to why I wasn't showing up to the aforementioned sessions.

c) I hadn't emailed her back. After 15 emails.

My glib retort, almost flat in timber (_thank-you-very-much-Unisom!)_ was: _"if I had gone through with it a second time, Soph', and had actually been successful, I would have been long dead by now. Are you sure you don't want to check up on me in another week or two and save us all a lot of trouble?"_

That almost landed me back into a locked ward faster than you can say _RISK ASSESSMENT_, believe me.

* * *

I assured her (_as quickly as anyone can assure a shrink in that drugged out state_) that she had no reason to worry.

_"I think, Patrick, that I have every reason to worry... when you start making jokes about attempting suicide again."_

Into reparation-mode I went, summoning up energy I didn't really have to spare.

I told her that I was sleeping, I was eating, and _LOOK MA!, _I was even showering and shaving. And no shaving cuts. _I mean, that had to count for something, right?_

But more than that, I was numb. And I knew that if I got taken back to the hospital, they'd take away the substances that made me numb in the first place. And then, as a double whammy - they'd want me to talk. They'd want me to_ feel._

They'd make me feel. All sorts of things.

And maybe,_ just maybe_ - that idea scared me even more than the prospect of technically living.

* * *

Of course, she was still concerned.

Made me lie down on my back, on the floor - since I had impulsively called The Salvation Army four weeks previously to take out all the furniture. I didn't want to see it and be reminded of the shopping excursions I had made with my wife, my little girl.

Sophie proceeded to take my heart rate, my blood pressure. Had supplies on her, which she quickly whisked out from her car.

I had been surprised that she had come back so prepared, but also was reminded of doctors from, say, 1941. The type who would make house calls with glass bottled folk remedies whilst clutching a black tote, or something.

* * *

On went the little rose coloured pressure cuff. Sphygmomanometer or something, I think Sophie called it. I keep blinking and staring at the pine beams of the house, imagining a line of energy that came from the trees, now chopped apart from their base and seperated from their roots, only to be realigned by human hands and used for our pleasure.

I felt a brief wash of regret for them, then. For those quiet, growing beings that had slept as deeply as my child may have when they too had lost their life.

But all I could do to was continue to stare up at them in wordless intensity, which is what I did and how I got through the bulk of Sophie's medical exam. I just focused on imagining the energy of those plants stretching out to the stars.

Stretching out to the furthest light, where hope of life still grows, even for the dead. _Especially for the dead._

A few seconds later, off came the cuff.

Sophie's face swam into view.

_"Your blood pressure is incredibly low, Patrick."_

She then delved into the potential reasons as to why this could be the case. Apparently - go figure - upping doses of sleeping pills willy nilly can cause your blood pressure to fall off the deep end.

_"How many pills did you take, Patrick? How many pills?"_

My dystolic was 39. Alarmingly low, she said.

_"I want you back in the clinic,"_ she informed me, briskly. Voice all no-nonsense seriousness, while her face showed just how unhappy she was with me.

"_I can take you there, myself. It doesn't have to be like last time. You work with us, and we can keep this low key,"_ she then proceeded to pluck her cell phone out of her jacket pocket.

I remember the feeling of freshly borne panic. It had been the only time in weeks and weeks, maybe even months, that I had felt...anything at all. My lips were still tingling from the pills I had consumed hours before, and the blood in my veins felt heavy from the medication but I can still recall the panic.

I can still recall the panic, and I can still recall grabbing Sophie's cell phone - _grasping for it_ - and then throwing it as hard as possible against the wall, where it broke apart in pieces as if made from glass.

* * *

Sophie tried to calm me.

Told me to lie back down, told me to regulate my breathing, and most of all - not to move.

Her mouth was a line. An emoticon. Tense and horizontal...drawn out to the moon.

_Bleak._

I waved away her concerns. Told her I felt _'fine.'_ Fine - of course - meant numb.

And numb felt about as close to dead as I knew I could get without actually dying. Because dead would hurt Sophie. And even if I had no one else to be _un-dead_ for - I couldn't do it. Not after she had tried so hard to help me. Not after our sessions, and that look in her eyes. That authentic look that told me quite clearly that she was concerned for me. Genuinely concerned. That she wanted to see me succeed.

That despite how fucking screwed up I was - _perhaps from birth_ - she wanted me to _"make it."_

And, more than that..._ she wanted to believe that I could. _

Taking hope away from someone is possibly the worst thing someone can do.

* * *

That's also when I realized that drugs make me sloppy. They make me careless with my words, even if the side effects could be appreciated and utilized when I was alone.

_Because I did prefer to be numb. __I would just have to use the medication in the privacy of solitude._

Especially since Sophie had helped me realize that death wasn't the answer.

_Vengeance was the answer. __Vengeance would keep me alive. __Anger could be my tool._

* * *

I mean, it still hurts. To think of them. It never will stop hurting, not even for a second. I knew that then, and I know that now. I know that it never will stop hurting.

I know that if I want to live at all, I'll have to learn to live with the pain.

* * *

Most of the time I could scarcely believe that they were mine.

That I had been so blessed as to actually know them at all.

_Oh Angela, I'm sorry._

* * *

_"All couples squabble at times, Pat,"_ my wife would tell me. _"They squabble, they make up... they are real with one another. And things are OK."_

I still remember how nervous I felt when we argued. Even when it was about something insignificant. Especially when it was about something insignificant.

_"Hey, look at me, Patrick," _and Angela had grabbed my hand then, tried to prevent me from leaving, because I wanted to - badly. It was her 'please''s that always got to me, of course: it granted her the essential time needed to turn my face away from the wall, and back on over to her, and her line of sight.

I still remember how I studied her, that beautiful warm face, and mane of hair - all glistening and golden.

_"When you know that you are loved, when you know it in every fiber of your being...you don't worry about being abandoned. You don't worry about being used. Not your body, not your mind, or your trust."_

I didn't want to hear this. I couldn't hear this. Not if she started talking about the ugly stuff. It felt wrong to hear her even reference it. It felt so wrong to hear her try to bring it up.

_"Come on, don't do this...don't block me out. You don't have to hide, Patrick. Not around me!"_

I'd tell her to drop it, then. I'd tell her that I _knew_ she loved me.

_"I don't really think you do though. Not deep down. Or maybe you doubt that anyone can love you. Or maybe you just don't think you deserve love. But you do, Patrick! And if you can't let yourself feel it, how can you truly reciprocate and love with all your heart? Truly love me, or truly love Charlotte?"_

I remember that day so clearly and the odd stinging bite - as if she had slapped me. But the sting was internal, and I all but ran from the room, away from Angela, and straight into Charley. My little Charley-bean, who suddenly was THERE: a pop up weasel at the carnival - _not there, _and then_ SURPRISE DADDY! _there. Charlotte, on the staircase, donning her fairy princess costume with sparkly makeup all over her face and neck. I realized when I bothered to actually _look _at my daughter, and take in her crumpled little face...that I must have been crying.

_"Daddy...what's wrong, daddy?"_

And her voice had pleaded with me, too.

* * *

_"I'm fine, Little Bear. Just thinking sad thoughts. Daddy's pretty stupid, huh?," _and my wife had watched almost tentatively from the doorway.

It had made me angry: she didn't have to stand guard and witness my denial of pain. What did she think? Did she really think I was going to...explain everything to a five year old child? I wouldn't even willingly share it with an adult. Not even a _shrink._

So then, as quickly as lightening strikes...the pain was eclipsed by a heady sense of irritation.

I bristled away from our daughter, who kept on in that small bell-like voice of hers: _"you're not stupid, daddy. You're clever, daddy!"_

But I had to **get. away**. Away from my child, with her equal parts confusion and empathy. It was...too much, for me. With my equal parts shame and upset.

By the time I reached the landing I _did_ run out to the garage, which was dark and cool and away from everyone who could see me. The car was unlocked, and I scrambled to get into the back seat not unlike a panicked animal as it furiously scrapes at the ground and the soil and _all that is _to **get. away. **And as soon as the interior lights of the automobile turned off, and no shaft of light cut through from the house, I **let. go. **

It was one of the few times in my life that I ever really cried. And more than cry, really: I ended up biting into the leather of the backseat to muffle the sounds coming up from my throat. Those weird sounds - almost unrecognizable as coming from _me. _All I could feel was a surging energy of something awful, something **_too much, too much, too strong, too strong._**

To this day, I can still locate the teeth marks from that day. Marks that are pitted accusingly into the back seat. You have to look closely and maybe pull back a couple of throws, but if you search diligently enough you'll see them too.

* * *

Potential short term side effects of Zolpidem include:

_anterograde amnesia _

_increased thought patterns_

_headaches_

_short term memory loss_

_delusions_

_rebound insomnia_

My doctor gave me a list, printed in courier font.

Strange...how innocuous it all looks, printed out on courier font. Gracing yellowed stationary.

* * *

_"You think the sleeping pills caused this?"_

His face was solemn. Grim, almost.

My limbs screamed at me, _**get. away. get. away. **_

_"I think, Mr. Jane,"_ he started, words drawn out with a dramatic flair that reminded me of Severus Snape, "_that if the medication is not causing these symptoms, then your wife may be right about the need for a consultation."_

The consultation, of course, was with a psychiatric referal service through the hospital.

* * *

My wife blocked my exit from the doorway.

_"Dr. McIvery...this is what I'm talking about!" _

My responding laugh was something scornful. Low and bitter. Something rotten. Something that had started to putrefy.

Something that had been fermenting for almost 30 years.

* * *

_"We get to this point, and he runs away! Every time."_

My wife was merely concerned about my _mental health. _No reason to feel threatened. Of course not.

How silly of me.

_"**'He's'...**right in the damn room, Angie!,"_ I hissed, my face feeling warm with embarrassment._ "Don't talk about me like I'm not here. You know how much I hate that - and what's more...you know that I hate all of this! All of this, discussing this. But I'm here. You wanted me here, so I'm here, damn it!"_

She had turned to me, features drawn into a mask too severe to belong to my wife. But I guess I had done that too.

_"'This!'", _and Angela mumbled something too faint for even my bat-strength hearing to detect,_ "And what about when we ask you about 'This'?, and we get nowhere? You're present, you say, but you're not really present at all, Patrick! Because whenever Dr. McIvery asks you a very simple question...what do you do? You chalk up all these problems to sleeping pills! And before that, it was...what? Allergy medication? Or maybe something bad in the fabric softener? Fluoridated toothpaste? How am I doing? Forgetting anything?" _

I had pushed her to that point - with worry.

_"Instead of just accepting our help and facing this head on we get...all this running! I've never known someone who could saunter and run so well at the same time!"_

She had tears in her eyes. And I had put them there.

* * *

On the eve of their murders, I held my wife's head in my lap. I covered her porcelain throat with my hands in mute horror, and thought:

_"She didn't even cry, when dying. But you made her cry. You did. You hurt her most of all."_

* * *

I was a man in love with his wife of seven years.

A man in love with his soul mate of far longer than that.

I had a child whom I adored with greater intensity than every other delight in the world, combined.

Our little Charley was a beautiful bright thing, new with open, doe eyes and a self assuredness that made me feel alive in a way that I had never felt before - and in a way I have never felt since I found her body. That broken little frame: opened and exposed. And just..._all over. _Her vital life, _everywhere. _All over the house in that wretched colour of death at its equinox: as equal in its needful representation of life, as in its display of death. My Charlotte, and the energy of her working physical body, stripped to mere cording, winding flesh, and little more. A red tide punctuations in space. A blotting scream.

Her life was everywhere that night; laid out before me in ruined traces, and a small, cold shell.

* * *

I had been unable to stop moving, and unable to stop bleating out my anguish.

I had been unable to stop my grasping, dragging clutching of her tiny corpse as I carried her to the center of the room, and sat cross legged with her under the skylight. Her favourite place in the house.

**"Look Daddy! Look at the stars!"**

Distantly, I can bring back scattered snippets from that when we all passed away:

_Breathing air into small lungs that had stopped working hours ago._

_Rubbing Charlotte's hands and legs to warm up pale limbs _

_that had already begun to merge with purple, and mottle_

_Curling up with my little girl under a heavy moonlight_

_ that spilled in from the window..._

_...and bathed us in a white-blue blanket of l__ight from an eternity away._

_The light of stars that were now no more._

_But still felt by the living. _

_Ghost-children, glowing long after death._

_Those little stars._

_Nowhere and_

_everywhere._

_Daddy and Mommy and Charlotte._

For always.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title - Little Stars - Part 17  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **I'm trying...re: writing regularly, updating more often. After this...the next chapter may be delayed by about half a week as I want to get a chapter or two finished for **_Redress_**. I also have a third chapter to add to **_Gabriel_**. The good news is that I always take a bit of a break from work in autumn, for about a week - which is wonderful as I'll definitely have some free time to write. :)

**A/N, part deux:** one of my Mabon 'new' years resolutions is to actually be a polite person and respond to my lovely reviewers. :) Additionally, this was the chapter that didn't seem to want to get written. If it feels fractured, I apologize. I wrote it in many start and stops, and it was hard to achieve a real sense of flow while writing. But I decided...I'll post what I have so far, as a sort of pre-season 4 opener celebratory chapter :)

* * *

_"A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely_ _unhappen_." ~Edward de Bono

* * *

At quarter to six, I decide to get up for the day.

I grab a shower, and zone out for a little bit beneath the spray as I do, letting the conditioner settle in around my neck and stream down my back in silky rivulets as I desperately try to get warm.

My entire body feels frozen despite the hot weather we've been having lately and the almost-too hot water under which I'm now submerged. My skin is fuchsia from the temperature alone... but all the same my core feels like ice.

Moving from shower to clothing quickly, I move with purpose and speed - knowing that I'll only feel marginally more like myself after getting dressed. When I finish towel drying my hair, I change into fresh jeans, a fresh bra, boy shorts and a three quarter length cardigan. It's navy and feels... concealing. A shade under what could be called baggy, really, but _almost_ as good a physical shield without coming across as sloppy or unprofessional.

The softness is lulling me into a dozy spell, however, so I apply some moisturizing cream and apply a quick stroke of mascara so I don't look dead tired to the world. Then I grab my wallet and lace up my shoes.

_My body wants coffee._

If memory serves me correctly, I'm not too far from one of those blasted _Fuel Coffee_ places (_I thought Starbucks was bad, but the baristas at Fuel are far too chipper for my tastes; it creeps me out. No one is that happy. I wouldn't be that happy if I won the lottery for Heaven's sakes!_), and even though my stomach is a little sore from residual hydrochloric acid and insufficient food choices colliding with the reality of a duodenal ulcer, coffee is going to be an indisputable necessity if I want to make it through the day.

* * *

My first impression stepping upon the asphalt is one of profound déjà vu.

Déjà vu compounded by a low level thrum of foreboding. The sun hasn't risen; the streets look black and tarry in the early morning. And from all appearances...

_...it has rained last night._

Rounding the corner of an ugly parkade pylon, I almost jog right smack bang into Jane. He's sitting cross legged on the wet pavement, his hair and clothing damp as if he had actually been caught in the downpour.

_How long has he been out here? I thought Rigsby said he had taken sleeping medication last night and was "out"?_

A rather large, somewhat furled paper bag with the _Fuel_ logo is wound and ready by his side, and he's cupping a sleeveless coffee cup with the lid off. The beverage is about half consumed from what I can tell. He looks cold and lost in thought. Able to be...startled.

_He seems miles away..._

_I've never seen him look so distant._

I decide to approach him tentatively.

* * *

Between Rigsby's concerns and my own suspicions, Jane will be aware that the team is worried about him before I even open my mouth.

_He probably already knows..._

And that's likely to leave him either extraordinarily defensive, or worse - belligerent. Or else, if not guarded in a confrontational way, then overly smooth - as if he doesn't have a care in the world and I'm just imagining or making up his issues. Simply imagining those blue-black markings beneath his eyes that could almost pass for bruises. Or simply "overreacting" about the weariness in his comportment.

_We watch, Jane. _

_We watch just like you watch..._

_...especially when one of our own is struggling._

"Are you going to continue standing there, studying me...or are you going to come over here and get your coffee? It's getting cold."

When he turns to look at me fully, I can see how badly I've miscalculated. He's not planning on playing the rascal, the smooth talker, or the imp.

_He's too tired for that. _

_So he's plying me with caffeinated beverages and treats instead._

"Who are you, and what have you done with Patrick Jane?," I say evenly, eyes narrowed to throw him for a loop.

He gives me a calculating surface scan in response; cerulean eyes course over my body, before his forehead furrows almost imperceptibly. Confused as to what I'm_ implying._

_Good. His confusion will buy me needed time to assess the gravity of the situation._

"I'll buy you a coffee whenever you need one, Lisbon. Just...let me know," and his face still registers his lack of comprehension, the expression now so similar to that of a little child whose homemade macaroni 'painting' for a parent has been disregarded as irrelevant.

Oh, I get it.

_He thinks I'm making some sort of snarky comment about his generosity? Which is boundless? That **really** tells me he's tired... _

"I'm not critiquing your sharing nature, Jane - which, believe me, doesn't go unnoticed. Is that what you honestly thought?"

I give him a terse smile and am rewarded when he visibly relaxes a moment later, the slightest shade of hurt now erased from his features.

"I don't know...," he says slowly, still uncertain.

I decide to change focus.

"A coffee right now sounds...pretty wonderful, actually. That's actually what I was just heading out to get," I add after a moment, jingling the keys to our rental vehicle for good measure.

He nods, looking almost pleased. Grants me a weak smile.

"Extra soy, two splendas, right? _Dairy hurts your stomach_."

I nod, wondering when he's ever heard me actually complain about dairy before realizing that I wouldn't have HAD to complain for him to have figured out my growing aversion.

"Thank you, Jane."

"Of course. It's nothing," he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleepiness. "But you're welcome."

I make to blow against the surface of the coffee, when he shakes his head dismissively, then adds, "No need. It's not going to be very hot anymore. Sorry 'bout that."

I resist an impulse to grab his hand, and instead curl my hand into a semi fist - giving his shoulder a tender nudge for show. Just jostling him a little bit. Wanting to bring him back out of himself.

"You're...sorry? That the coffee you got for me - very thoughtfully I might add - isn't hot anymore? You shouldn't apologize unless it's warranted, Jane. Which _in this_ case, it isn't."

"I should have waited until you guys were up, but I knew our first appointment with Thea's teacher is scheduled for pretty early. Knowing you, you didn't sleep enough, which means you'd be running late, which means you'd miss your morning coffee. Which would translate into a migraine or caffeine withdrawal headache by 10 am. And tired-Lisbon or headachey-Lisbon isn't my favourite shade of you my dear, no offense."

"_I don't sleep enough?_ That's a little rich coming from you, isn't it? Oh yeah - before I forget - how long have you been awake, anyway?"

He blinks, but doesn't respond in any manner for almost a full thirty seconds.

"Not too long," he mutters, just as I'm about to rephrase my question.

_Not too long my ass..._

"I just wanted to review some case notes, Lisbon. Honestly."

"Come on, Jane. "Honestly"? You're soaking wet, by the way. And don't give me some story about grabbing a shower, either. Unless you had a shower in your clothes, I'm not buying it. And if you ever do decide to take a shower in your clothes, let's just say..."

His expression at being caught in such a silly and obvious untruth is peevish, but he replies: "You make me sound as if I'm going to crack up at any moment, Lisbon. Do I really strike you as deranged?"

"_Deranged?_ Of course not. But you're not doing much to convince me that everything's actually alright with you though, are you?"

He seems to get my reference immediately, and I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that I should have probably eased into this conversation. He's on edge now - no doubt wondering why my rituals and routines have changed if I'm _not_ about to take him off the case. Which I'm not, given that I can sense he's trying.

_This is something more. Something different._

And, beyond that, this killer is clever. He leaves what look like an abundance of clues in the form of puzzles and riddles - but he's also meticulous not to leave a scrap of usable physical evidence behind. The poetry sprouted in acrylic paint on the walls seems more like a taunt, than a clue. One that we are probably not ever meant to understand.

Jane's presence, loath though I am to admit it sometimes, is needed right now. His quietude, however, is unnerving and makes me feel further torn between keeping him on and demanding he take some time off. Take care of himself.

_Sleep._

_"This_ is what I meant earlier, Jane. That you just seem off. I mean..._you_, drinking _coffee?_ For the third time is as many days? I haven't seen you even touch a cup of tea since we got to L.A."

"I've just been tired. Tea isn't rousing me enough right now."

"Tea can't rouse _anyone_ enough if they are operating on empty. Coffee might give you a little bit more of a boost in the immediate, but it will never be able to replace actual sleep. Take it from a coffee-junkie, Jane. I've been drinking coffee since I was 11. There's no shortcut when it comes to sleeping."

He's mouthing _"yes Mother Teresa"_ at the pavement, before a smile creeps onto his face and - _wait for it - _I know there's a jab in there, right around the corner, just ready to emerge.

"You started drinking coffee at 11, huh? That's probably why you're so sh-"

_Like clockwork._

"Don't say it, Jane. I _mean it_..."

"Don't say 'petite'? I was going to say _"elfin and petite."_ It's a compliment, really."

"Riiiight. Sure you were," but I'm smiling as I swallow down another ounce of cold mocca-soya-something.

He looks up at me and smiles a little more brightly, and for one moment he almost looks okay. He almost looks healthy.

"No. It's good, Lisbon. Thanks for putting my mind at ease. I mean, at least we know it's not some sort of _genetic_-"

_"Watch _it buddy. You may have gotten me a coffee - which is definitely appreciated - but that doesn't buy you carte blanche to say whatever-"

His hands rise in a pacifying _OKAY okay!_ gesture before I can say anything else, and he makes a motion with his fingertips as if he's zipping up his mouth - his smile soft like a chastised dog's. I take another sip and try to compose what I know I have to ask, but wish could avoid having to insinuate.

_At least if this wretched case was over and he'd had a modicum of rest..._

"You know, I am serious. You do need to sleep..._more_ than what you've been getting. I worry when you don't."

His mouth opens up like a fish, then closes abruptly. He frowns at his hands.

_I'm not trying to guilt trip the man. God knows he carries around enough misplaced guilt to last 20 lives. But I do worry. _

_And knowing that fact will - hopefully - make him less combative. More receptive to hearing me out._

"I don't want you to worry," he begins, and his eyes flutter up to meet mine again before furtively retreating back down to the pavement.

"Yeah, well - funny how what we want isn't usually what we get...because I do, Jane. I **_do_** worry. And the rest of the guys? Well...I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but just in case you missed the memo: they're your friends too. If it concerns me, it's on their radar as well."

He's smiling that self-deprecating smile at the concrete. But he's silent, and just when I'm pretty certain he's going to remain stone-cold-mute, he says in soft tones: "I want to believe I can say _there's nothing wrong with me_, and have you believe it, Lisbon. And I'm worried too. I'm worried I'm going to say that and you're..."

He trails off, and this time I do reach for his hand, putting my coffee aside on the ledge of a plant feeder while I do so.

"Jane," I start, the conviction of my voice considerably stronger than what my gut is asserting, "I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with _you_. Things can happen to a person that are wrong, without that person being 'wrong.'"

"Stop it, Lisbon," and his voice is barely audible now, "Either go there, or don't go there. But don't let it _be_. Not as it is. Not hanging like this."

"Believe me, I don't want things left hanging either. But would you make getting a clear answer even possible for me right now? Tell the truth; that conversation would be over before it began. You want me to ask questions about something you've only hinted at, Jane?"

"_Hinted at_?," and the challenge in his gaze is clear. His eyes now hold a challenge of "_ask, no really, go ahead!"_, which I hadn't been expecting. But there's also a not-too small dose of fear mingled in with his expression as well. "What on earth have I ever _hinted at_, Lisbon?"

_I was asking him about Thea. _

_About if anything similar had happened to him as a child..._

_abuse, sexual abuse  
_

_...and he had said, "I don't think it counts as that!"_

"Seriously? You want me to do this, then? You want me to press you for questions rather than letting this unfold in its due time?"

"There's not going to be any..._unfolding_!" He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "I can only _imagine_ what sort of sick stuff you think has happened to me to make m-"

I can tell he's getting keyed up when he stops speaking - not only mid-sentence but mid-word. _Keyed up _is maybe a better term; he's trying in vain not to become visibly agitated.

And Jane can call me a control freak until he's blue in the face, but it won't change the fact that he also aims to control and order his reality. Instead of being assigned the task of overseeing how a team or unit operates - and being responsible not only for multiple lives, but also being responsible for the actions of those lives, Jane's issues of control are linked to being able to present a collected front, unruffled. Perhaps his very sense of self is wrapped up in how well he can craft his own reality by manipulating how others see him.

"Look," he resumes, a few moments later - his voice carrying a tone of consolation, "I'm fine! I'll be fine. I just need to stay focused, and all these questions aren't helping me do that."

"That's what I mean, Jane. I'm not trying to suggest that there is something wrong with you as a person. But your_ focus_ is off."

"My focus will be fine once you quit it with the questions, Lisbon! If I appear distracted...maybe I'm just coping with things I've always had to cope with!"

His eyes skim over the pebbles as if transfixed, and I recognize his scattered gaze for what it is: distraction. **Detachment**. He doesn't like what I'm doing by asking questions, by digging. Yet he can't deny what I'm saying - because I'm sticking with the equivalent of "I feel" statements for the moment.

"That may be the case, and if in the past I've missed something that I shouldn't have, I'm sorry Jane. I mean that. As your friend, I AM sorry - but being sorry doesn't mean that I can now in good conscience ignore-"

His look of relative calm shatters into something unmanageable then, and he clenches his fists. If the _Fuel_ bag didn't contain three other drinks and a various assortment of breakfast foods, I have a sneaking suspicion that Jane would have chucked the containers across the parking lot already.

"You don't like to talk about _your_ childhood!," he interjects suddenly, his upset now indisputable. "Even though I want to be as good a friend to you! But I don't press you to talk about it because I know that won't help anything! And I don't...dwell on whatever the hell happened to you, Lisbon. I don't go around imagining every twisted little scenario of _could be's _like I know you're doing!"

"That's _NOT_ what I'm doing, Jane! Can you really not see the difference between those two situations? This is new to me. To see you like this on a case that isn't Red John related! And all I see is you sleeping less, and eating less, and it's not as if you had reserves to spare in the first place!"

His smile suddenly has a morbid quality to it. It almost scares me.

"Now who is not being honest? You're not saying what you are thinking... that you don't _know_ that there's nothing wrong with me!," and why is he making that grimace of a smile _at all_ when nothing about this situation is even remotely funny?

"You're worried that I'm damaged. And not just sorta-kinda, but irreparably permanently...screwed up," he breathes. "Must be some pretty nasty secret then, right Lisbon? _Oh whatever happened to little Patrick Jane to make him such a freak_?"

There's a gritty layer of pain in his voice, and I can't discount the partial truth highlighted by his words. _I am worried about him._ Even if he's chosen the bleakest angle from which to perch and study my reactions and contemplate my concern.

"I have never thought of you as a freak, Jane. I will never think of you in that way," I state cleanly, doing my best to keep emotion out of my voice. "No matter what you tell me. Ever."

His hands rub back and forth over his trousers, almost spasmodically.

_"Yeah right,"_ he whispers.

"I'm worried about you, Jane! Pretty big difference. Vital, actually. But you're right," I add, my thirst for coffee now eclipsed by my hunger to have this issue addressed, "I'm not going to lie. I_ do_ think something is wrong. I'd have to be an idiot to not pick up on it. And you...more than anyone else...would know I'd pick up on it. You gave me just enough to alert me, and we both know that you don't make mistakes. Not mistakes like that. So, yes, I think there's something you don't want to tell me, but something you need to tell me. And I think you hate that that's the case. I think you hate the fact that you're finding it hard to keep it in when - up to now - you've been able to keep_ everything_ inside."

He swallows then, and wraps his hands across his belly as if cold.

There's a flush against the bridge of his nose, under his eyes. A feverish rush of colour.

He's either ashamed, or he's getting sick again. Or both.

"Jane? Look, now might not be the best time to even addr-"

"You're wrong, Lisbon," he mutters, cutting me off but still not meeting my eyes, "I have nothing I_ need_ to tell anyone. No one. Not even _you_."

He dumps the remainder of his cold coffee on a section of yellowing grass, and then reaches over to me. Plucks the keys out of my grasp before I can react.

"I'm going to nap in the van," he adds, and I nod at his retreating back.

...

* * *

Despite arriving at Dorothea's school nearly an hour before the start of classes, the playground is far from empty. There's a good eight or nine kids running around, laugh-screaming and making a hell of a racket.

_Are they trying to make as much noise as is humanly possible?_

Jane catches my eyes, and gives me an amused closed-mouthed grin. A half smile.

He wants everything to be..."back to normal."

_I get it. I want that too._

"What I wouldn't give to have just 1/10th of my youthful insouciance back, Lisbon. It's refreshing - their verve for life, isn't it?"

"More like migraine inducing," I mutter under my breath, before I let myself fully contemplate what Patrick Jane would have actually been like as a little kid.

_Not simply a little kid needing attention, compassion, love - but a little kid, period. _

_One undaunted by parental instructions, time out's or groundings._

"No limits. No responsibilities," and the man is actually smiling! Smiling fondly, the kook! _As if his present day life is a huge departure from this 'dream scenario._ "You get up whenever you like. You have breakfast. You find frogs down by the sewers. Those were the days..."

"Says the man who never went to school as a boy. Which, by the way, still boggles my mind. Were you even registered as an American Citizen?"

Jane smirks. "Oh, I may have led you astray, somewhat."

"No doubt."

"Come on...I didn't outright lie. I didn't go to school, that _is true_. I took correspondence 'studies' - which always makes me laugh, considering I basically studied whatever the heck I wanted, whenever I wanted to... If I wanted to spend the day reading about Nostradamus? Why not? Want to read Batman comics and lie about how much physical activity I had actually gotten for the week...that was okay, too."

_But of course... That does explain his extensive range of esoteric knowledge and almost frighteningly honed abilities in his subjects of interest. A child Jane would have still been incredibly intelligent, and would not have been content to do absolutely nothing. But to do **anything** he wanted? Study anything he found interesting, and skip over all the rest?_

_It makes total sense._

"Oh Lisbon, don't look so glum. It was simply a far easier option for preternaturally lazy kids, and all the same totally legal. Win-win."

He's smirking at me.

"Right, Jane. Besides, if you are operating on less than 1/10th of..._what did you call it? Your "youthful insouciance"?..._then I can only conclude that the charming Snake Lady on the carnie circuit who used to bribe you with cinnamon donuts had rocks in her head. I mean, I love...," I manage to stop speaking right before I make a huge fool of myself, and feel heat infuse my cheeks while my brain catches up to my mouth. "I love playful kids too. But do those boys have to _scream_ like that?"

Jane's gaze is flickering _back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Window wipers. Roaming one way, back the next._

"Oh shut it, Jane," I snap a moment later when he gives me an aggravating grin. "People make stupid errors like that all the time. You know what I _meant_."

"_'Shut it'? 'Stupid'?_ My dear Lisbon - what's prompted this rapid change from affectionate to aggressive?"

His smile reminds me of the Grinch's, and it takes all my resolve not to sock him in the shoulder. _And not a light, little tap like earlier, either._ Reason and cool headedness must prevail, however; there are children around.

_There's enough craziness as is._

And, as case in point - one child decides to act as prime example, running up to Jane and smacking him on the back, then screams "You're it!," before he runs away giggle-laughing.

Jane turns around, looking authentically startled, before his face morphs into something playful.

"No, Jane," I begin, "we don't have time to play Tag. Tell your new little friend you're busy."

Jane pouts, then begs with mock sadness. "Aww come on, Lisbon. Poor little guy is just sitting over there all alone. It doesn't even look as if he has any friends."

And it's true, too. Depressing though that thought is. The little brown haired boy has run behind the recycling bin and keeps watching to see if Jane will actually respond. Every few seconds his small head pokes out from behind his poorly chosen hiding spot - then whips back behind the bin, soft laughter following.

"Have a heart," Jane mock-grouses, while pointing to the child - who _does_ make a rather pitiful picture.

All three feet of him.

"It's almost...Dickinsonian, Lisbon! The tragedy of it all."

"Fine. Don't blow him off. But tell him you're busy. We need to get going now, Jane."

Jane sighs, then makes a little wave motion with his hand, calling the child over to us. "Hey buddy! Can you come over here for a second?"

The little head retreats back behind the bin again, as if he's actually hiding himself from view and Jane gives me an wide eyed look before I sigh, "Go ahead," and he jogs over to the kid while I wait where I am, and watch.

A few seconds later, I can see the little kid toddle out from behind the recycling bin. Jane hunches down to speak to the child, who is still dwarfed by Jane's height. After a few moments, I see the child adjust his glasses and give me a wave and a big gaped smile my way.

_Oh, what the heck..._

* * *

When I finally approach the two, the little kid is sitting on the grass, his legs curled up to his chest. He keeps lifting the Velcro straps off of his shoes and then snaps the straps back in place, before starting all over again. It's making a lot of noise, actually.

_A little on the restless side. He probably sensed a kindred soul in Jane... _

"Teresa, this is Spencer Maxwell Miller," Jane tells me with a huge smile - evidently getting a kick out of the kid's name. "Isn't that right, Spence?"

The little boy nods furiously, before he raises up two fingers and rubs his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Spencer Maxwell Miller, the _second_. I know how important suffixes are..."

The little boy nods with greater insistence then, before he opens up his lunch box and tosses various packaged products out on the turf.

"Well, err," I look up at Jane, a little unsure of what this has to do with anything, "that's great, Spencer... This looks like a fantastic lunch. Truly. But Mr. Jane and I have a meeting wi-"

"Miss Hazelton?," the kid chirps from his spot on the grass, before he passes me a bright package. "You like fruit roll ups, Teresa? This one is cherry. You like cherry?"

I'm half way torn between being touched and downright confused at this little child's random generosity.

_And knowledge._

So I pass the fruit roll up back to the kid and tell him gently, "no, that's yours. You keep that for lunch time, okay?," all the while wondering why the heck this little guy is giving his treats away; to my consultant he's already passing over what looks like a chocolate muffin. Jane's earlier words - _"he doesn't even look as if he has any friends!"_ seem far too loud in my head, and I suddenly feel sad.

_If this sweet little kid thinks he needs to bribe people to be his friends..._

"Chocolate is definitely my favourite food. Thanks Spencer!," Jane grins, seemingly not getting the fact that it is **wrong** to take this little boy's food.

"Give that back to him, Jane!," I hiss, while trying to maintain a surface appearance of calm. The little boy doesn't seem to notice that anything is amiss when Jane passes back the muffin, regrettably.

"You can have it if you want Patrick! My mom gives me lots of treats to give to my friends. See?," and Spencer is now showing Jane what else he has to offer... as pathetic as that sounds.

_I mean, this little kid really needs someone to look out for him._

"Spencer, it has been lovely meeting you, but Patrick and I have a meeting with Miss...Hazelton very soon," I start slowly, "so we must-"

"She's my teacher!," Spencer squeaks, suddenly, "Miss Hazelton is my teacher. She's a very nice lady. I can show you to my classroom, if you want."

With those coke bottle eyeglasses and his general demeanor, this little kid almost seems like he's been stolen from a 1950's Campbell soup commercial. You can't reject a kid like that. It's just...not right.

"You're in Miss Hazelton's class?," I clarify, a little uncertainly.

Jane gives me a big smile, mouthing,_ "he knows Thea, Lisbon."_

"I can take you to my classroom, if you want?," Spencer states again, that eager little smile still on his face.

_Oh cripes._

Ok. Fine.

_I mean...why the heck not?_

* * *

Classroom 2-H already stands out from all the other classrooms we've passed. It's different. Special.

_Kind of like Spencer Maxwell Miller._

Jane looks pleased, and whispers to me, "well this looks festive!"

And it's true. It does.

The door itself is the very picture of brightness and fun. A large neon green sign, WELCOME TO 2H!, greets us, followed with a blown up coloured clipping of Wilbur the pig, and Charlotte the spider, from **_Charlotte's Web_**. In the background of the cartoon sign is a sketched web with the words "GOOD CLASS."

_That's cute..._

"This is my classroom!," Spencer enthuses needlessly, knocking gently on the door before reaching upwards and trying to turn the handle with his tiny hands. The kid is so short - he's having a hard time doing even that much and so Jane reaches out and helps him with the task.

"Thank you, Patrick," Spencer huffs to Jane - and the very exchange seems almost comical. Spencer then swings open the door, and calls out, "Miss Hazelton?"

_No answer._

"I guess she's not here yet," our little guide informs us, before: "I can show you 'round. Here, I can show you! Follow me!"

We do, tentatively.

Jane switches on the light switch, and the room is suddenly full of light, and warmth. The space before us is comprised of pockets of chairs and desks in sections of four with large name tags and stickers identifying each desk as belonging to a particular student, rather than long stretches of chairs end on end as was the norm at my Catholic schools as a kid. Towards the back of the classroom is a kidney bean shaped table in a light blue. A little sign hanging from the desk reads as "Miss H's Desk."

Jane takes the time to wander around the space, talking to Spencer as he does so, "Woah...this is neat! Did you guys do this?," and he points up at rainbow sea of marine animal cut outs. Each one is the size of a second grader himself, really, and the things look as if they are filled up with cotton baton or something. All 20-something of them basically take over the bulk of the roof space. Oddly, it's almost comforting.

"Those are our fishes!," Spencer nods.

"Fishes?," and Jane grins widely, even though the little boy is nodding vigorously.

"Fishes is right, because we all chose different species, so that would make them fishes, not just fish! I looked it up in my encyclopedia."

Jane raised his eyebrows at me, and smirks.

"Is that so, huh? I didn't know that, Spencer."

"Yes, yes," the little boy is nodding frantically now, "fishes is right."

I can't help but wonder if this little kid has some sort of condition, and if he does, I'm pretty certain Jane probably already knows what it is, so I try to ignore Jane, and turn instead to address Spencer with utmost seriousness. The last thing the kid needs is to think someone is mocking him.

_Something tells me he gets enough of that already._

"Thank you for letting us know that, Spencer. That's was very interesting."

As if deaf, the little boy is already walking off to the end of the classroom, and Jane's smile goes from large to huge.

"And that's Dorothea's dolphin." Spencer suddenly points out a smaller animal towards the back of the classroom.

Jane walks around to where Spencer is pointing and looks up at an electric blue dolphin with large googly eyes. On the belly of the drawing is Thea's signature in green crayon.

"You know we are here about Thea, Spencer?," Jane tests, seemingly impressed even as Spencer's mouth quirks into something almost nervous.

"No, no. It's okay. You're not in any trouble, buddy," Jane is quick to assure the child. "Why do you think we're here about Dorothea?"

"I heard Mr. Trenholm talking with Miss Hazelton about Thea yesterday. Talking about how someone took her."

"Is that all you heard Mr. Trenholm say, Spencer?," I clarify.

_God help any adult who is talking about the grittier details of this case where children can hear..._

Spencer simply nods, then carries on with his show-and-tell session. "Thea loves dolphins. All animals. Almost as much as I love dinosaurs," he then walks over to a cluster of desks, and goes to remove something from his desk. The name of each child jumps out at us in neon bubble stickers; I can clearly see that he would have sat opposed to Dorothea Castleton during class.

From a desk marked "SPENCER" (the sign is covered with stickers of dinosaurs and lizards) the kid is now pulling out various pieces of paper, and notebooks. The opposing desks read as "BENJAMIN" (this little kid likes trains, apparently) "MATILDA" (stars and planets, mostly) "DOROTHEA", at last - in blue. The name Dorothea is surrounded by small animal stickers. Kittens, puppies, frogs, butterflies, giraffes, elephants, monkeys. It didn't appear as if this little girl was particularly choosey when it came to animals. She apparently loved them all.

My musings are interrupted by our Aspergerish tour guide when he suddenly erupts with, "oh I knew I had it! See! See, you can look. See?"

Small hands pass over an obviously hand-made valentine, in yellow with bold orange letters and dotted with small cut out hearts, in purple. Construction paper.

I silently read:

_"To Spencer. You are my best freind Spencer. _

_Thank you for telling me about all the defferint dinosors and invitting me to your birthday party and giving me a godey bag with the webkinds cat and the picshure of the cat you drue for me and also thank you for being so nice and giving me your graps the other day cause you now I like graps allmost best. _

_Love Dorothea Elizabeth Castleton."_

I pass the valentine over to Jane, who reads it quickly, and then passes it back to the little boy.

"We won't need to take that from you, bud. You can keep that. But thank you for sharing it. That was very helpful."

Spencer nods, but hurriedly puts the valentine back into his desk - looking relieved that he gets to keep his card. Jane comes over and hunches down low to address the child at eye level.

"So Thea came to your birthday party, Spencer?"

"Her mommy dropped her off, but Thea didn't stay long. She didn't even have any cake! It was chocolate and it had pudding in the center. It was good cake. Thea said she's not supposed to have junk food. And then she gave me a book you can colour with dinosaurs and a model Pterodactyl you make with wood pieces. After that her mom picked her up... before we even had treats."

Jane's eyes are suddenly intense.

"Was Thea ever alone during the party?"

"Jane," I caution, suddenly, "we should really wait for Spencer's teacher before we ask him anymore questions."

Of course he continues on, as if he hasn't heard me._ Infuriating man._

"Did she maybe use the telephone, Spencer? At any time at your party? Can you remember?"

The little boy is suddenly still, as if lost in thought.

My eyes dart around the room, trying to discern if anyone is coming. I check my watch.

8:14 am.

_Miss Hazelton should have been here nearly 10 minutes ago._

"She used my sister Jeenie's cell phone to call her mom. She was feeling sick, but didn't want me to tell my Daddy. Thea gets sick a lot," Spencer almost whispers the last sentence, as if he's sharing a secret. "But she gets upset if you ask her about it. I think she thinks she'll get in trouble."

"She does? That's not good. Grown ups should never get mad at kids because they're not feeling well. In what way does she get sick, Spencer?"

"_Jane!_"

This is totally inappropriate. This could have serious...repercussions. We should have permission from this kid's parents before we talk to him in this much detail.

"Sometimes her tummy hurts and Miss Hazelton has to call her mom or dad. One time she started crying after gym class and I had to walk her to the nurses. I gave her a hug so maybe she would feel better but she wouldn't stop crying. In fact she started crying even worser."

"I'm sure she wasn't crying because of anything you did, buddy."

"Maybe. But then...," the words are suddenly clipped and full of hesitation.

"Go on. It's alright, you can tell us," Jane encourages when there's no further speech for a good 10 seconds.

"Then Thea got sick all over the floor, and when she stopped throwing up I could see that her mouth was bleeding and she wouldn't move. She just...went by the wall and was quiet and turned around and wouldn't even talk to me! And then Mrs. Lipton came and got her and took her to the nurse and told me to go back to class."

A slight flicker of a smile graces Jane's mouth at the indignant tone in the child's voice.

"It sounds like you are a good friend to Thea."

The little boy shrugs, and holds his shoulders in a hunched position for several seconds before I decide to take a few moments and study the classroom a little bit more. While I have the chance. At 8:45, classes will start and we might not have another opportunity to come back here again.

Not too far from the Spencer and Thea's desks are several bean bag chairs in various colours. Hanging from the ceiling is a small hammock filled with picture books. A large circular aquarium with orange and red plastic look out towers identifies the class pet: "We love Portabella!," exclaimation point included. I smile, wondering who chose that name Portabella for the white tufted hamster.

The wall above the bean bag chairs has large red letters that identifies it as **_The Cool Wall_**, followed by the notation: "Things Class 2H Thinks Is Cool!"

Underneath that is a motley assortment of watercolor paintings and childlike printing. I let my eyes gaze over the writing to see what a seven year old of today might find "cool", and try not to laugh at some of the responses.

_"My dad has a moostash that grows fasser than my hare. - Jacob"_

_"I tink that Cownt Chacula sereal is cool! - Molly"_

_"Dinosaurs are cool. Especially herbivores. They could eat all my salad. ROAR! - Spencer"_

_"I lik Teevo. I can wasth god shows latr if I miss thim at gemnasticks. I doant think gemnastiks is cool. - Bridget."_

_"I love animals. Cats and dolfins and bunnys are my favorete. They are very cute and speshul and sweet. When I grow up I want to work with animals at the zoo. - Thea."_

My breath catches in my throat. An entire household revealed very little about this child, other than her crushing loneliness. Thea Castleton never got to let her guard down at home. But apparently she did at school. And hopefully, she left enough evidence of the who she was as a person. Not only her likes or her dislikes, but a sense of what was wrong.

Hopefully, this trip will allow us to learn more about how she appeared to those on the outside. Child and adult alike.

Because whoever murdered Mr. and Mrs. Castleton and abducted their daughter knew...a lot. They knew her worst secrets. Secrets she was coached never to speak about, never to mention.

So the biggest question we need to answer right now is..._how._ How that information was obtained. Because someplace, at sometime... something vital was leaked to our suspect. And either Dorothea talked about what was happening to her. Or else, _someone_ _else_ knew what was happening to this little girl, and confided in an adult.

Watching Spencer talk to Jane, I quickly realize that we have at least 24 potential 'someone's' we will need to talk to, as soon as possible.


	18. Chapter 18

**Title - Little Stars - Part 18  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **Yes. There is a POV shift in this chapter. I'd thought I'd send you guys a courtesy heads up. :)

For the record..._yes_, I realize that Thea has an odd (almost peculiar) way of talking. She's a little kid, and a child whose been traumatized, but also one that has spent a good portion of her life trying to survive in a rich inner fantasy world. That's going to be my excuse for the fact that I don't know any 7 year old kids at the moment, and also that I was an odd little 7 year old kid myself back in the day.** ;) **

I DO realize that the spelling, grammar and general tone of this chapter will not sound - in any respect - 'correct.' That's part of the fun of writing from the point of view of a child, and believe me, it's not laziness. I found myself automatically correcting expressions and spelling, only to then go back over what I had just edited to 'loosen' it up again and make it sound less constrained and obviously less adult-like.

Also, I realize that this particular chapter is about 50% shorter than my typical chapter updates (and in some cases, considerably shorter than my 7 to 10 k updates, mammoth though those are!). I have had a few people pm me recently and tell me that my chapters can become almost _too_ long to read, and that slightly shorter chapters might (overall) be better. So I'm testing out the recommendations of others and seeing if it assists me with the general task of writing.

At any rate, it makes no difference to me if I post shorter chapters twice as often. But it might be preferable to you guys? I'm not sure. :)

And, finally: this chapter is definitely_ not_ a filler. It is essential to key parts of the story that will be coming up in the next three or four chapters, and definitely has a purpose.

**Onwards, onwards!  
**

* * *

_"All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams." _ -Elias Canetti

* * *

**THEA'S POV**

* * *

My hand feels warm and ticklyish. My belly feels warm too. Warm with pancakes, and Chicory-weight. Chicory is the warmest puppy. He's pudgy, and hot, and has little puppy feet that feel like warm bags of sand when he taps his feet against me. He presses his teensy weensy dog feet against my tummy and makes a growly noise in his throat, his eyes all shivery _up and down_ like. Little marbles rolling around quickly back and forth, cause he's sleeping and your eyes do that when you sleep. I think they do. _I think so._

_Mrrr mrrr mrrraaww_, Chicory whines, and then yawns, and I see his little puppy teeth - all small like little pieces of porcelain. I blow on his face, and in his sleep he yawns again and then sneezes.

I laugh, but sorta _kinda_ quietly cause I don't want him to wake up.

"Come on, Snicker doodle! Let him sleep," Rudy tells me, but nicely. Not harsh or anything.

"If you blow on his face, he makes yawning noises, Rudy! And he sneezes," I explain. "See?"

I blow across Chicory's face again because it's really funny when he starts sneezing like he's sniffed a bunch of pepper and got it up his nose, but I'm trying not to giggle and wake him up.

Chicory is so cute. He has big, brown eyes. Little bean-brown eyes all huge, kinda, and sweet and baggy little rolls of pink skin underneath because he's a Cocker Spaniel dog.

"Chiccccory," I whisper, and blow again, and he starts sneezing a whole bunch now. He then lets out a big sneeze, and snorts, and wakes up like _1, 2, 3 READY SET GO!_ Super fast - almost dodge-ball fast - and then his eyes just stay open all huge. Almost like he scared himself, and I bite my lip a little bit so I don't start laughing worser.

"_Theaaaa_," Rudy gives me a _now you did it!_ look, but he's still not mad. Rudy never gets angry. "He was sleeping, Little Debbie...you should have let the puppy sleep."

Chicory sleeps **a lot.** A LOT_ a lot._

He has a little puppy bed and it's right next to my bed which is over top the drivers seat. My bed has a little navy curtain around it and a little clippy thing that goes under my mattress so I don't fall off and go SMOOSH! and get broken hitting the ground if Rudy is driving our motor home when I'm sleeping.

And Chicory sleeps on my bed, on his puppy blanket with all the cartoon puppies - but he usually doesn't sleep on the blanket. _Not really._ Usually when I wake up, I find Chicory on top of me. He will stretch out like a kittie and roll his paws over my belly and sleep real close to me because I choose him most specially out of all the puppies at the store and love him maybe not the best (because it's mean to love one best cause all the puppies and the kittens are super adorable and all need lots of love) - but he knows that I love him a super bunch. That's what matters, really.

Even though he sometimes doesn't _act_ like he knows, because right now he's looking at me and play-nipping on my hand.

I call it _play-nip_ cause his puppy teeth (_Rudy calls them milk teeth cause he's still so little and still was taking milk from his mommy before I got to pick him_) - well his puppy teeth are all sore and he needs a teether ring like a human baby. But we didn't pick him up a teether ring because we forgot, and Rudy says we can't go back to the shopping mall because it's too far away now and he _isn't isn't ISN'T_ going back.

_Mrrrawww_, Chicory snorts again, and chews on my hand.

He gets his drool on me now and _ewww gross_, there must be a lot of germs all creepy crawling on me right this second! A million times a million. And maybe even more. If my Daddy saw Chicory being all messy with his snot and spit, I'd have to take a long bath and scrub a ton and get all the germs off first before I did anything else.

"UCK. Puppy spit," I say to Chicory, who just blinks at me, and then I wipe my hand on the back of his puppy blanket cause it doesn't matter much to Chicory, I don't think. He drools on everything, and he won't take it personally. Not like a person. He's not _"as sensitive"_ Rudy tells me. But that doesn't mean you can ever tease a puppy just because they might not be _AS sensitive_, I don't think. Because what if you are making fun of them and deep down they know? And then you'll hurt their feelings, but maybe they can't ever tell you cause they can't talk.

It would be very sad to be a little animal who can't talk but is all sad inside, I think.

I pull my new green t-shirt out from under my pillow next. Rudy got it for me at the science museum. It has a dinosaur on it. I coulda choosed any animal t-shirt from the science museum store, but I wanted the dinosaur shirt because it reminded me of my best friend, Spencer.

Spencer is in my class with Miss Hazelton, and he's super nice and gave me a Webkinz cat. He is super, super nice for a boy, and even told me all about dinosaurs, and about the_ Dinosaurs Alive!_ sibit. Spencer loves dinosaurs and I think he'll be super happy when I tell him about my adventures with Chicory and Rudy and how I got to choose any shirt I wanted and I choose the dinosaur shirt and not the horse shirt, or the one with the dolphin, even though I almost like dolphins maybe more. Well, maybe I like dogs best now, but they didn't have a t-shirt with a dog on it at the Science Museum, because they only have t-shirts with old things on them or animals in the wild. Not dogs.

And then I get a cool idea - that maybe Chicory would like to come to see the dinosaurs with us. So I ask Rudy, cause Rudy always says if I want something, I should just ask.

"Can we bring Chicory with us to the 'sibit, Rudy?," I ask very nicely, and cup my hands together. Because I'll feel badly if Chicory has to stay in the motor home if we get to go and see dinosaurs. He's just a little puppy and he'll get bored.

But Rudy is humming the theme song to _The Muppet Show_ right now and I don't think he heard me.

I like _The Muppet Show_ too. It's one of my favourite shows and Rudy thinks that's super neat cause when he was real small, maybe even smaller than I was when my Daddy and Mommy adopted me, he used to watch Muppets too. His favourite character is Animal. I think I like Kermit de Frog the best, though. Especially when Kermit has his little microphone with him and goes around and says,_ "dis eess Kermit de Frog repoooorting...!"_ Like a weather man.

"Thea? Did you ask me something, Sugar Bear? What did you ask me befor' about Chicory, darlin'?," and Rudy's voice is louder now cause the motor home is slowing down. We are going to McDonald's and getting hash browns and juice. So now I can hear him really good because we aren't driving very fast and it's quieter.

"Can we bring Chicory in to the 'sibit with us?," I ask again as I put on my new stripey socks with the little rabbits all over them. Rabbits are one of my favouritest of all animals. And these socks are mega cool because they have rabbits right by my feet and they'll make me run faster. Like a super fast jack rabbit. _Zoooooom_. I'm very fast at running anyway, but faster with rabbit socks, I think.

"The Exhibit, you mean? The Dinosaur Exhibit?," Rudy makes a chuckle noise in his throat.

"Yeah. The sibit! The one with the dinosaurs! The one that Spencer told me about. I think Chicory would like to see all the non-scary dinosaurs. The ones that eat the plants. Can we take him, too?"

But Rudy doesn't say YES or NO or anything right then because JUST at that moment a lady starts to talk through the loud speaker.

The speaker goes _FIZZZ FIZZZZZZ_ all static-like, and then the lady says all very super happy like she's won a million dollars or something: _"WELCOME TO MCDONALD'S! Can I take your order today?,"_ and I want to laugh because she sounds _very_ happy, and I don't think **she's** going to see the dinosaurs or do anything special today **at all**. I'm _pretty sure_ she's just going to give people hash browns and orange juice all morning.

"Just a moment. One second please," Rudy says loudly to the lady, and then softly to me, "Just the hash browns darlin'? No apple pie? Ya sure?"

I nod. I'm still full from my pancakes from yesterday and it doesn't feel good. I feel all bloated like a whale who ate every last fish in the ocean. The pancakes feel like foam in my belly and aren't going down, and I don't even think I should eat the hash browns now, because my stomach is getting fatter every day I eat the food, I can tell. Except my stomach also feels hot and sore which is NOT GOOD. When my stomach gets too sore, I sometimes throw up and I don't want to do that today. If I throw up today, Rudy might say NO to the dinosaurs and I might not get to see them again before Rudy has to leave.

"Uhh, yes Miss. Just one iced coffee with hazelnut and a large fries," Rudy says very politely, "and can we get the Happy Meal toy with the hash browns and the orange juice, please?"

He winks at me because my Daddy always says _NO_ to McDonald's, and most specially**_ NO_** to Happy Meals.

"I'm sorry, sir. The toys are just for the Happy Meals themselves, but you can purchase the Happy Meal toy on its own if you want to. It would be an extra-"

"_Yes, yes, yes._ Just add it to the order, please," Rudy interrupts the lady, and I feel sorta all hot inside. All hot and prickly and almost sad that he'd cut her off because she already was so happy for us and trying to be all good at her job, and even said NO so NICELY.

"Alright sir, so that's an iced coffee, with hazelnut, a large fries, child's orange juice, hash browns and the Happy Meal toy? Did you want the toy for a girl or for a boy?"

"Thea, c'mere," and Rudy pats right besides his seat, so I sit down in the passenger space. He says it's called riding SHOT GUN, but I don't know why. "Which toy do you want? The Disney Princess doll or the _Dinosaurs Alive_ figurine?"

I try not to get too_ too_ excited, but say really loudly and in my POLITE voice to the lady, "Can I have the _Dinosaurs Alive_ toy, please? The one that eats the vegetables and has the long neck - if you still have one like that? Or else the one with the three horns that also just eat plants?"

Then the intercom buzzing machine goes _FIZZZ FIZZZ_ and then the lady says (and maybe she's laughing, I'm not sure): "Sure thing, sweetie. I have a _Brontosaurus Alive_ right here with your name on it. I think I might even have a Triceratops too. Let me go see."

The buzz machine turns off, and Rudy smiles at me, and says, "See where good manners get you, darlin'? She's going to give you two toys, ya lucky girl."

And then the little sliding window where the food comes through gets yanked back when we move ahead after the blue car, and an old boy passes the brown bags through the little space and he DOESN'T look happy. He looks like someone told him that he can't NO WAY go to the _Dinosaurs Alive_ Sibit.

When I look in my bag, I see them both: a little plastic wrapped long neck dinosaur and the three horned dinosaur that eats salad.

I open the three horned dinosaur out of his plastic and put him on Rudy's tape deck, and Rudy looks up at me all questioning-like.

"I just wanted the long neck dinosaur. So I thought you might like the three horned dinosaur. You can have him if you want, because then this way we both have a dinosaur?"

Maybe it's stupid, because Rudy is a grown up and he might not care about a three horned dinosaur.

But then maybe he does care, because another second later Rudy gives me a big, big, BIG smile. His teeth are very shiny and white and when he laughs it's deep in his belly. A deep belly laugh.

It reminds me of a roar, and sounds almost spooky, so I pull the long neck dinosaur out of the package and pretend to play with it until I hear Chicory whine behind me.

_Meewwwmwww_, Chicory cries.

Almost like he's in pain.

I think he wants my food.

* * *

**A/N:** just a quick chapter to tide you over. I hope. ;) Next chapter, well, prepare for some eeriness, and more than one allusion or reference to Charlotte Jane.

Remember, reviews make me smile :-)


	19. Chapter 19

**Title - Little Stars - Part 19**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me. Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N:** The writing bug decided to sink its teeth into me at 3:30 in the morning. I feel I should apologize for such a delay in postings. Last month was a combination of double shifts and two bouts of flu and one trip to the ER. Yes, I need a stronger immune system.

I want to thank (and I'll be covering the last two chapters for thank you's here, since I'm not great at getting back to people who have been so supportive and wonderful XD):** Feist **(yes, there will be some slight Jisbon-ish developments, towards the end. More of a promise of things to come in the next fic)**; My Beautiful Ending; MentalAgent13; Xanderseye; Ana; Psychedelica; Flashlight Maniac (thank you :)); Aqua Mage; mwalter1; MissDonnie.._._**_and longer replies to reviews are at the end of the story for everyone else!_

Thank you again, guys!

(Some longer notes/ thank you's are at the bottom of the story. I apologize if I have not thanked someone properly!)

**Warning:** my spell check feature was not working. I tried to briefly search for any obvious type-o's, but I am a wretched speller at the best of times.

* * *

_"And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom..."_ - Aeschylus

* * *

"So where are we at?"

All five of us are decked out between two beds, a lounge chair, and a cot. Jane is sitting on the floor, cross legged - writing furiously in uppercase red letters on a pad of canary writing paper. His vest has been tossed over his cot, and his white shirt is unbuttoned more than usual, and is clinging to his skin. The sleeves, of course, have not been rolled up.

"Well...," Rigsby shares a look with Cho, "Thea was a sick kid. There was talk of admittance. To a hospital."

"No kidding," Jane mutters irritably. "A seven year old with all the signs of bulimarexia. And she's "sick," you say?"

Grace looks up in alarm, her features taking on a wounded appearance. "But Dorothea was just a little kid! She was _bulimic_?"

"Not exactly," Jane seems to intensely study Grace for a few seconds, and then frowns at his sheet. Apparently, he has nothing else to add.

Yet.

"Van Pelt...we don't know anything for certain, but-," I try to placate my youngest agent and am rewarded with an indignant snort.

"Oh _come on_, Lisbon! You spoke to the kid's main pediatrician. Her teeth were rotten. The enamel was _gone_."

Cho folds his arms, attentive as always.

"The kid had an ulcer, Jane. Vomiting isn't uncommon. Enamel erosion accompanies vomiting."

A smirk now. It looks so wholly inappropriate given the gravity of what we are discussing that I know it's for show.

Jane _acts_ most of all when in he's in acute pain.

**_And I know this case is ripping him apart._**

"Oh, I highly doubt she kept anything down, Cho. But she could have, even with her wrecked stomach. No. This wasn't from an ulcer."

Cho's smart enough not to argue. And I'm smart enough to know that he's not done yet.

"I bet even when she wasn't feeling physically sick, she still made herself throw up. It was the only chance she had."

"Chance?," I test, already suspecting where he's going with this, but needing to know for sure. One trap I refuse to fall into now is to assume anything whatsoever about Jane's train of thought.

"She was threatened no doubt. _If she told_, I mean. Fathers that hurt their little kids? They know how to terrorize a child. Threaten to hurt mommy, since mommy doesn't hurt anyone. But if that's not enough, then maybe they threaten to break an arm. Or a leg. The threat alone is usually effective."

Van Pelt looks green; I've had enough.

"Jane. That is not helpful. It's conjecture. And it's ugly - and distracting. Either give us some actual-"

"Her father _knew_, Lisbon. He knew what she was doing, but there was nothing the bastard could do!," and the glint in his eyes is feral now, and almost celebratory. Almost as if he's proud of Dorothea Castleton.

"She was going to get him. She was going to expose him. Come on - think about it logically. Here's a little kid, basically being raped by the one person who should protect her the most in the entire world. She's too scared to tell, but she's not too scared so as to not make herself physically sick. Not when being sick means hospitals, and doctors, and trips. And even if no one made the connection, it meant more than anything else that she was not at home. Sometimes for days at a time. Since Mr. Castleton was an executive, it also meant that she was typically escorted by her mother. So she got to travel outside of the city, stay at her cousins, or in a hotel. What she wouldn't have to do is stay alone with her father. No - she's this sick because she worked at it, Lisbon!"

"He didn't want to take her to a shrink," I supply quietly, a growing sense of some dimly lit puzzle piece whitening into a clearer shape in my mind.

"Yes! And that's _why_," and suddenly Jane is holding up four records of pediatrician notes, "Castleton put it off. A pediatrician will diagnose an ulcer, sure. What does a pedophile care about that for? So she's referred to a specialist. Big deal. Worse case - a GP will worry about some sort of attachment disorder in an adopted kid, maybe. But still, that's more of the same. More blame the victim talk. And then Mr. Castleton is home free."

"_Unless_ she has to see a shrink. In which case, everything changes," Cho offers. "They'd see what you see. They're trained to consider it."

"Exactly!," and the furry in Jane's gaze is back. "_Especially_ if they figured out that she's deliberately vomiting after every meal. A psychiatrist would make the connection between her emaciation and see deliberate vomiting faster than anyone else, and that monster knew it. He knew how it would look. What it could suggest to a professional."

I mentally will away the pressure in my sinuses. For the last two days, it has hurt whenever I have had to bend over, and overtaxing myself is only going to lead to an infection.

"She couldn't have known all the intricacies though, Jane. Not well enough to mani-"

"It wasn't manipulation," and his voice is firm now. No nonsense. "It wasn't how she_ thought_ it looked. Maybe she didn't even do it with the awareness that anyone would ever make the connection. That was the least of it."

"Then...why?," I press, not understanding why a child already so hurt would further hurt herself. Certainly low self esteem would present differently in a little kid than an adolescent. Certainly she wouldn't be starving herself for the same reasons.

Jane gets up suddenly; almost as if jolted.

"Isn't it obvious?," and for one moment there is a look of such infernal rage in his eyes that I am scared. "It's because she couldn't stand to have anything else in her body."

Then Jane breaks our line of sight, looks away, and exhales.

"I'm getting some more of that vending machine coffee that tastes like battery acid and artificial sweetener. Any takers?" I hear the sounds of coins jingle about and ping as he rustles around in his jacket pocket for spare change.

A vote of silence is his response.

"Ok. _Well._ Just don't say I'm not a team player."

I wait until the door latches shut and I can hear the soft padded steps disappear before turning to the others.

"Boss?," Rigsby licks his lips. "Dorothea was...like..._sick-sick_, according to her specialist. I mean maybe Jane is right."

I shift in my chair, and study the others. Rigsby's eyes dance over his case notes. Notes with his big, blocky lettering and bullet format. Cho looks lost in thought. Grace looks ill.

"Van Pelt?," I query.

"Her stomach was really messed up, boss. I mean, Dr. Everett - the specialist? - he says it was bleeding. A lot. That she's badly anemic as well. There was even evidence of strain on her heart. He wanted her admitted to St. Francis Children's Hospital for a scope and biopsy - and a routine observation stay."

"When?"

"Scheduled for less than two days after the murders."

Grace suddenly hits the bedside oak table with her fist.

_Hard._

_Cho hits things. Rigsby...rarely. Grace - never.  
_

"She was almost there, damn it! Almost _safe_! She would have been admitted and they would have run tests, and she either would have improved, which would have been suspicious, or she would have made herself deliberately sick. In which case, that would have _REALLY_ been suspicious!"

"Van Pelt...we can't know for-"

"She was heading in for observation in less than two days from the time that she was taken, boss! But now that little kid is out there, living with some _lunatic -_ with a strained heart and bleeding guts. She's half way standing in her own grave already!"

"Look - _Grace_ - I know it's sickening. But we have to stay composed. It doesn't mean we're cold or callous."

I remain utterly still until I hear a resounding, '_I know_.' It comes almost ten seconds later.

Because I feel it too - that panic. The knowledge that in slightly over a week, this child is going to be fed her last supper. Some perfect, chosen meal. Most likely something of her own choosing.

Poisoned with anti-freeze.

I even know that it takes more energy some days to compartmentalize the horror of certain cases than it takes to simply *feel* in the first place. But if we get caught up in the horror, we've lost the game.

And then Thea really will die.

* * *

Cho checks his watch. Scowls.

"It doesn't take 15 minutes to get vending machine coffee from the lobby."

"Leave it. We can continue on without him," I assert.

"_Continue without him_? We can't continue without him, boss," Rigsby stresses, "What do we have? A sick kid, a bastard father, and a killer who knew about it? We have no prints, no DNA. We have no _discernible_ connection between Dorothea and any of the other victims. None attended the same schools, and there's no crossover in dance or any other activities, far as we can tell. None of the children had their own e-mails, or websites - nothing like that. They were all so young. The eldest victim was only _9_."

Rigsby has always talked more when stressed. While Cho typically talks even less. If possible.

"What was he working on?," I ask, and indicate with my hand the pile of canary yellow notes sprawled against the tan carpeting, not two feet from where Jane was last sitting.

Rigsby shrugs.

From my angle, perched in the lounge chair, I can only make out long strokes of black inking. Marks connecting to additional boxes, all coloured in red. From my position, it almost looks like a familial graph showing lineage relationships. I stretch out and grasp at Jane's handiwork, and pull it closer for inspection.

"Interview notes?," Cho asks while I scan the messy writing.

But it's not interview notes at all. In fact, I can see absolutely no documentation from the 24 kids we quickly spoke to earlier today.

Not that we learned much, of course. All in all, not much to learn from even 24 children (2 absent). Basically, your classic overtaxed classroom of 27 children: 17 boys and 10 girls. 20 of whom knew next to nothing about Dorothea, 2 who could provide no comments whatsoever, and 4 who could only provide essentially unrelated, spontaneous or even erroneous information.

Spencer alone had been able to provide us with a little bit of useful data.

"What is it?," Grace asks me at last, as I continue to peruse Jane's notes.

"Dates. Dates and times. Street names too. Some are marked off with stars. Some he's circled."

"Doctor visits?," the younger woman clarifies.

"No. This...well, it doesn't make much sense. These are future dates. See for yourself."

_ God, why does he have to be so cryptic about everything?_

I toss Jane's work over to Grace, who in turn surveys the pages with a frown.

"These are event dates, I think. Look guys," and Grace is tapping one line now. _May 17th_. "This one is tomorrow. The 17th. Rennfield St? That's where Ventry Center is located. Near Cordelia Ave. It's that big center with the sports arena - and they have shows there, too. Like concerts and stuff like that."

"Yeah, like our killer is going to take little Thea to a _concert_," Rigsby scoffs. Then, so as to assure Grace that he's not scoffing at her, he amends his words. "Not that you're off, just that Jane-"

Grace waves his concerns away. "Not just that, though. All sorts of things. Like exhibits."

_Exhibits?_

_Wait a second... _

"Is Ventry Center mentioned? Is it circled?," I ask impatiently.

Grace glances back to the notes.

"No, but Jane underlined two words - "_Dinosaurs Alive"_? Like three times. See for yourself."

_"Dinosaurs Alive"?_

_Spencer Miller. _

_That little kid was obsessed with dinosaurs..._

Thea wasn't. But Thea liked Spencer. And Spencer loved dinosaurs.

It was weak, but at least it was something.

"What did Jane cross out?," I test, a strange sort of clawing need building up in the back of my brain.

"The Binary Hollow Space Museum? And he added two letters by it - NL?"

"Jane code. Great," Cho quips. "Just what we need. The man doesn't make enough sense normally, so he has to use codes."

There is a familiar aroma here of something creepy.

Sinister.

"Eliot - the little boy. The fourth victim? He died outside of a science museum," I mutter.

Cho nods, adds sadly, "Right. He wanted to be a paleontologist. Bright little kid."

Grace still sounds so unnervingly angry - her eyes almost mirror images to how Jane himself looked before he departed for coffee.

"Yeah," she breathes, "Who knows what he might have done with his life if he hadn't died from renal failure induced by ethylene glycol poisoning."

I suddenly wish I had asked Jane to get me a coffee as well. Even though it is unnaturally hot for this time of year in LA.

Even though the streets are baking and not five minutes ago I was more than pleasantly warm.

Even though it's almost supernaturally hot.

Because now I am freezing.

* * *

A/N part deux:

**MentalistLover: :)** I sometimes have read stories where situations have felt rushed, and no matter how much I like or can appreciate the writing and the concept, I can't visualize the events unfolding. I was very much like this as a little kid, when writing - so I'm not attacking anyone or being overly critical. I can more than understand the excitement that causes people to rush when they're writing! (When I was small, I'd get so excited about where I wanted a story to go that I'd more or less scoop out the entire middle section ;))

And I agree with you on the Simon Baker acting front. He's so incredible, they could chuck almost anything at him and I'm sure he'd be spot on and just perfect with his presentation (because he always is amazing).

**LittleMender: **Spencer is based, at least personality-wise, on my sister as a child. He's more overtly sweet than my sister was - but she a good heart and a way of talking that was so much like this little kid that it's not even funny. :) Also - I'm glad my "little kid speak" came across as realistic and not simply bizarre ! I don't know any little kids personally at the moment, and my extended family who have children only have infants right now, and I rarely see them as it is.

I agree with you: Rudy is spooky.

I actually thought of the character after watching a documentary on abused children who had developed Reactive Attachment Disorder, and wondering what would become of them if they didn't heal properly. I mean - if someone can never bond? How can they really feel horror when they harm someone else? Or if they did heal properly, but also live through similar abuse?

So I mentally sketched out a story where Jane would have been traumatized as a child, but more or less would have recovered (even amidst long lasting problems) - but the perpetrator/ unsub would have been permanently damaged. Also, I wanted to extend the time frame of the story so that it wouldn't feel rushed and I knew that if I had a child victim who was murdered early on - not only would it be incredibly bleak and horribly depressing to write - but I wouldn't be able to cover certain subjects as easily.

The idea of the perpetrator abducting Thea came after I realized - I still wanted to make this (somewhat vigilante) killer seem as creepy and unnerving as possible. Abuse can be so devastating, and I've always been fascinated by how some people who are deeply hurt as children can become extremely empathic while others become antisocial and unfeeling. So by giving the children everything they could possibly want for three or four weeks, only to kill them too? I thought a character who did that would be more unnerving than one who outright kills the children. It reminded me of stories I have read regarding Joseph Mengele - who treated children to treats before he viciously subjected them to tests and torture. There was something much more contaminated and out of place about Rudy being kind to Thea first before killing her.

I guess it's the very aspect of betrayal.

Sorry! I'm writing a book here instead of a response ;)

**Mo - **I'm sorry you cried! Or maybe, I'm not - because that means you are a deep feeler :-) Thank you for your sweet words.**  
**


	20. Chapter 20

**Title - Little Stars - Part 20  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **No spell check yet again. Argh. Please ignore any type-o's or spelling errors that I missed. And, additionally, I wasn't going to post this chapter just yet, but the next few days will be crazy-busy. I thought something was better than nothing. More regular updates? That's my goal. :)

* * *

_"Hope is practical. Because eliminate that and it's pretty scary. Hope at least gives you the option of living." _

_- Harry Nilsson _

* * *

I almost feel the knocks before I hear them.

Tentative. Uncertain.

I school my facial features into something just shy of aggravated, and answer the door before the second set can begin.

* * *

Jane looks incredibly sweaty. Almost as if he's run a marathon.

_Not that Jane would ever willingly run. But..._

"Where the hell have you been?," I say by way of brisk acknowledgement.

The imp-of-a-man before me at least has the common sense to _feign_ being contrite. Progress, I guess.

"I went to get some coffee," and he glances around, not meeting my eyes. "Where are the others?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and don't call him out on his obvious lie.

"Oh, I don't know. Doing actual work, maybe?"

He gives me a small, almost pained smile that should rouse some sort of empathy within me. But it doesn't. I just feel pissed off.

Jane has his problems. But he's not the only one whose sleep deprived. And, unfortunately for him - while Jane may become melancholic and prone to hermetic retreats when exhausted, I simply get pissed off easily.

"Just get in here."

Even as I reach for him, I try to convince myself that the physicality of my motions are not unnecessary. Unwarranted, even.

He seems so distantly strange and caught up in his ancient pain. I have no idea how to lessen what he's going through.

_And if there is one thing I really hate - aside from seeing my friend in pain - it's feeling ineffectual._

* * *

At the moment his face is a pale mask. His egg white shirt is clinging to his chest and his hair is matted against his skin.

It's hot outside today, sure - but it's not_ that_ hot.

"Are you still feverish, Jane?"

He swallows roughly, gives me a hesitant glance.

But he doesn't answer my question.

Instead, softly, he repeats himself: "Where are the others? I have something I have to talk to you guys about."

I try to keep my sigh contained.

"Cho went back to see the Millers. Apparently Spencer showed his mother something that she thought was helpful, potentially, and she called us. And Grace was able to finally see Mr. Engle-,"

"Thea's Uncle?"

"Right. The husband of Thea's mother's sister? He doesn't know Thea very well, and his wife is still in Europe, but hopefully he can help with a few of our questions."

"_Okay._ I take it Rigsby is off getting us some grub?," he asks in a tone that just borders on amused.

"It_ is_ almost 8 pm," I add in quick succession, suddenly feeling the need to defend my agent. My words present as a clipped vocalization that a newcomer might term 'borderline bitchy', but it can't be helped. I know what happens when you coddle Jane. It's not healthy for him and it's completely taxing for me. Especially as half the time he milks it for all it's worth, which drives me crazy.

_So I refuse to coddle him._

But I will always do my best to help him. _That_ never changes.

"And you? What are _you_ doing?," he asks, completely interrupting my thoughts.

I glower.

"Oh, I _don't know_, Jane. I guess I just decided to linger about aimlessly in case you happened to show up. Because - of course - I had absolutely nothing_ better to do_."

He winces as I pass his luggage forward; I try to reduce the snark in my tone when I see him flinch.

"Sorry," I breathe out, light as air. "Just..._Jane_..."

I leave it at that and make a move for his hand instead. Peace offering. Because I know that this case is killing him. Heck, this case is killing_ me._ Usually we work cases with adults, and usually those adults are dead when we find them. As bad as that sounds, knowing that the victim can't really be saved takes off some of the pressure. What's important in most murder cases is that we find the killer, and bring that person to justice. So they can't harm anyone else.

But this isn't a standard case.

This isn't even a standard childhood abduction case.

This is a perverse countdown. One with so stringent an end date that we practically know the hour of Dorothea Castleton's demise if we don't find her first. We _will know_ when it's too late. We'll know, statistically, when must too time has passed to save her.

It has everyone on edge. Even Cho, usually so stoic in his outwards appearance.

So that's why I grab Jane's hand.

Jane is so strongly haptic a person that sometimes the most effective messages are ones that are accompanied by a light touch. By a kinesthetic presence of some sort.

Too bad I've never been a huggy person. One drawn towards physical touch as a sign of affection.

_**Because Jane is**_.

For him, physical touch is typically just that: a sign of affection. And he does it more with me not because I'm female, I don't think. Not because it means something more. His touches aren't sexualized. At least, I don't think they are. That's not the sense I've ever gotten from his touches.

**_He doesn't think of me like that. He can't. I'm just a friend._**

But they_ are_ affectionate and for the longest time I used to think he made the overtures simply to bug the crap out of me.

Now I suspect that he does what he does for two primary reasons.

I) Either he thinks _I need_ the contact. Because when cases on more difficult for me, that's when he'll be more touchy-feeley.

II) Or he needs it himself. _And trusts enough in me, and our friendship, to know that I won't reject him._

Jane has always made me think a lot of Gabbie, my little brother. How Gabbie was always so willing to hug someone but especially and resoundingly me. (Even though I stiffened up around Gabbie like he was a cat and I was some teen who was deathly allergic to cats, sad as that sounds.) But my little brother never seemed to be able to help himself. He'd just glom onto me anytime he thought I was sad. Like crazy glue. Used to drive me nuts. Yet when he was sad, I'd always do my best to return the gesture. It seemed to put him at ease. It seemed to tell my baby brother that someone loved him. That the person who loved him was _with him._ In real time.

_Now._

**_Right now._**

* * *

My hands loosely encircle Jane's own and he bends forward into my space, his chest rising and falling lightly.

From what I can see, he seems to be calming down. I almost feel as if I've witnessed the tail end of a panic attack: his slow movements and willingness to return my hold on him seem almost cloying.

**_No. Not cloying. _**

**_Craving protection._**

While the reality that Patrick Jane is a walking, living victim of Red John is never far from my mind, the ability to fully understand the raw horror that Jane underwent when he found his family is harder to really get. To sense that raw and mutilating fear? _I don't know if it's possible to truly grasp it at the visceral level._

And as if he can read my mind, I suddenly feel Jane's hands flutter under my own - both uncertain and needful. For what, I'm not sure.

"Lisbon...," he starts, a strain evident. But, like me, he stops talking.

The two of us have been doing that a lot lately.

**_And I have never known how to help him._ **

How to help him move on, even though that's what he needs to do to finally heal, isn't it?

_He has to move on._

The idea is at once both so patiently outrageous but also so obvious that I feel destabilized.

Because how do you broach that topic with Patrick Jane? With a man who still wears his wedding ring to keep other females away? A man who clings to his pain almost as if it testifies to the fact that he did (and continues to)_ love them_. When healing, to him, is synonymous with forgetting? Or worse - with replacing them? Or even worse - rejecting them?

When he feels - as I know he does - that he best shows his love to them by staying locked in his pain. By owning it, as if it's a badge. A pain badge that he holds, because he loved them so damn much.

And because he deserves to feel the pain in the first place.

That's what has me worried.

The sense I get that Jane is punishing himself. Even now, almost ten years after their deaths.

* * *

That's why I do my best to engage him in his distractions, in his trivia. In his ploys and schemes and little mind tricks that seem to rouse his inner trickster, but which also seem to put a damper on his internal obsessive cycling. His self-imposed tortuous recrimination. His questions, over and over again on what he _could have done_.

The constant circling _why?_ Around and around in his mind like a circling carrion eater feasting upon his brain.

* * *

"I'm sorry," he mutters a moment later, "I shouldn't have just left like that."

I hear him exhale, though his eyes are still trained on his lap.

"No. You shouldn't have. We're a unit, Jane. You want to clear your head - fine. Just tell one of us first. Don't go wandering off without your keys, or your cell phone. Nothing, I presume, save for the change you just happened to have lingering in your pockets?"

He simply nods, not even bothering to argue the point.

_"Ok,"_ I sigh-breathe, unsure of how to continue a conversation when he's being so exasperatingly complacent. It's atypical behavior for him, this complacency. This yielding to whatever I say. "You will probably want to get changed before the others get back with dinner."

"Hmm?"

"You need to change, Jane. You're soaked to the bone," I explain as I gently ruffle his shirt sleeve. It feels damp to my touch. "Certainly, Mr. Perceptive can sense that? Don't you feel dreadful stuck in wet clothes, anyway - Mr. _The-Milk-Goes-in-First_?"

He nods again in that _not-quite-here_ way, then proceeds to dully unbutton his shirt. On the spot. His face furrowed into a serious expression.

_Auto pilot, I guess._

"Jane._..come on...,"_ and I turn around to give him his privacy. My motions seem to rouse him from his state of semi-sleep. He mutters a_ "sorry,"_ then makes his way to the washroom, still seeming a little confused.

I wonder why I care. Because a good sized chunk of me doesn't really care if Patrick Jane changes in front of me.

But then I think that I _should_ care. That it's wrong for me, as his friend, to not defend his privacy.

_Oh God. Maybe I'm almost as sleep deprived as Jane._

A moment later I see a band of light spill forth from the bottom of the door, then hear the washroom taps spurt to life - barely concealing the shuddery release of human breath as they do so.

* * *

When he emerges several minutes later, Jane is wearing a new blue button-down shirt.

Topped with a sweater vest. In a _Herringbone_ print.

I try not to smirk. And I'm sure I fail.

Jane gives me a patient smile instead. As if my response, and not his clothing choices, are the oddest thing.

I'm not even surprised that he_ has_ a sweater vest. In an alternate reality, Jane would have pulled off the absent minded Professor routine pretty amazingly. He just comes across as someone who could have exceeded all expectations in the world of academia.

_If he had gone to University, of course._

"Are you seriously that cold?," I query, holding out my hands for the bundle of clothing he has currently cradled into a compressed ball.

_I have a load of laundry that I want to do anyway..._

He shrugs. Evidently, being sick reduces his ability to speak. It's a side effect that I wish I could bottle up for long term use. Applied at the most opportune times.

"You must have a fever again," I grouse, irrational anger lapping at my brain.

I'm not angry with him, of course, but his face draws into a grimace when I speak - almost as if I've just smacked him. Almost as if he thinks that I'm angry with him. It's an odd reaction. A strange response considering he usually doesn't seem to care whether or not I am "irked" with him for any reason.

The man can't help being sick, or having nightmares, or being haunted by this damnable case. Yet, when it comes to the things he _can_ control, he never presents as anxious.

It's all backward.

"I've asked you before. But you have to talk to me Jane. What's going on with you?"

His eyebrows knit together.

"Just because I don't get sick_ that_ often doesn't mean that I can't get si-"

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it. Come on Jane, don't play games with me."

The same shuddery mass of breath, as heard earlier from the washroom, is repeated. I can sense his nervousness, and want to assure him that everything will be okay. But if I'm too sympathetic, I'm not going to get anything at all. I know that too.

"I just am cold, Lisbon. Really cold."

So he wants to play it as incompetent. The one thing in the world that no one could ever,_ ever_ apply to him.

_I've read his file. Mr. Borderline-Genius Level IQ. _

_Fine_. Whatever. I prefer not to push people anyway, especially on personal issues. He knows that. But I won't allow him to self-destruct, either.

And he has to know that too.

"Well, sure, I guess you must be cold. Hence the non-stop intake of coffee. It makes perfect sense now. A hot beverage on a sweltering day - when everyone else is blistering hot. You are_ sick_, Jane. You should _not. be. working_," I parse, slowly, so he gets the point: _proceed carefully, and take care of yourself - or I am yanking you off this case_.

And here I had just assumed that he needed to stay awake because he's been staying up _all freaking night long_ reading case notes in the communal 'boy's washroom.' Self destruction of another sort, perhaps, but one not as intimidating or scary to me. Not one as consuming as this lingering, draining fever. Or whatever the hell this bug is.

This sickness - this fever that is acting like a slow acting poison - and making him white as a sheet. It's true, too. We are now going on week three of Jane looking not unlike bleached cotton. This isn't any typical bout of gastroenteritis, or a normal bout with the flu. Whatever this is - it is not going away. If anything, in some ways, I sense that it's taking root. Building a foundation.

Getting worse.

"Sit down," I order in my bossiest tone, frustrated that he's still sick despite my earlier attempts at mending him. I know he's not a car, or an electronic device, but when I apply myself trying to fix something or someone I like to see some sort of progress.

_I like to know that I've made a difference..._

My hand snakes out to feel his forehead, and to gauge what's going on.

"You don't feel hot to the touch, Jane. Not much, anyway. If you have a fever, it's a mild one. How cold do you feel?"

"_Cold cold._ Like I swallowed ice water. Freezing inside. And I can't, I uh-"

His eyes take on a guilty expression.

"I can't stop shaking."

His hands - so firmly pressed against his thighs up until now - suddenly rise, and he spreads his hands out before me as if he were pressing them flush against a pane of glass.

"See?," he whispers.

And it's true. A light tremble is working its way through his hands.

_Damn it._

Now I am even more concerned.

"How long has _that_ been happening?"

He shrugs, wraps his arms around his midsection, lowers himself onto his cot. I catch sight of the grey and black angora blanket that I purchased for his cat naps on the CBI couch, and smile automatically. Until I realize that Jane - _Jane, master manipulator when he wants to be_ - wound up with the dingy cot, that no one would want, while Cho and Rigsby both got the beds.

And that is at the heart of my concerns. Jane's so-called manipulation never has anything to do with self-indulgence. It has everything to do with assuaging his guilt. That's what this is for him: this torturous neglect of his own person. I know, without question, that we could find this child with his general insights and passion and intelligence and he wouldn't have to resort to not sleeping or not eating to do so. But this isn't about simply finding a child.

This is about punishment.

"What happened to my notes?," Jane asks me suddenly, and makes a lame attempt at redirecting my attention away from his piss-poor state of health and onto our case.

"I gave them to Van Pelt. She made copies of Dorothea's second grade school shot and then headed over to Ventry Center to have them posted at the ticket admissions office - along with all the other underlined addresses you deduced with your oft-denounced psychic skills," I pause for a moment, and give him a toothy grin to let him know that I'm ribbing him. Somewhat.

"Good," he whispers, nodding his head in approval. "Good...one of those places is where he's going to try to poison her. One of those places is his end game location. A week and a half from now. He'll feed her a tasty breakfast - whatever Thea wants, of course - and he'll probably fix the poison in her beverage - _all the other kids had a lot of fluid in their bellies_ - and when she starts to close her eyes, he'll take her outside and let her 'sleep' in one of the cars he'd stolen the night previously."

"Jane..."

He has that wild, uncontrollable glint in his eyes. The look that always makes me feel as if can't reach him. No matter what.

"He never is with them when they die, Lisbon. They die alone, in a sleeping bag. With an admission ticket around their wrist. It's almost a symbol of their upcoming death. He's very ritualistic about it. Probably makes them drink the poison before they get to wear the bracelet. That way... he can't really connect his actions to their deaths. It's a type of dissociation. He can convince himself that they had the time of their lives but simply passed away. He's not left with their corpses. He doesn't truly get that he's _murdering_ them. To him, it's a removed form of euthanasia. These kids were hurting, but they weren't just hurting. What happened was so awful, they feel so awful inside... they are dying."

I hate it when he talks like this. When he talks in that dissociative present-tense way.

It just reinforces in my gut that something wicked happened to him. Something he's going to keep denying, and something that is obviously impacting his ability to get through this case normally.

"In his mind he thinks he's being kind, Lisbon. He put them out of their misery, and they were fatally wounded anyway. Their fathers fatally wounded them. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if our killer wasn't sexually abused himself."

"Jane - you can't _know_ all of that..."

But of course he does. He always does. However, my skeptical comments are what typically prompts him to share his deeper thought processes, and that's what I am banking on now.

He fixes me with a look.

"Did you tell Van Pelt how to inform the employees on what to do in the event that a child of Dorothea's likeness is seen?"

"Yes."

He stares at me for several seconds, internally debating with himself.

I decide to take the lead.

"But, besides that - you still haven't answered my earlier questions. How long has this been happening? Your hands, I mean - how long have they been shaking?"

He seems to have a moment of difficulty and swallows, then relents: "Since last Tuesday."

_Almost a week ago._

"Damn it," I huff, quietly and far more calmly than I feel. He did, after all, confide in me with minimal prodding. I can't reward such good behavior by blowing a gasket. I want to encourage him to be more forthright with me. Getting angry with him now is not going to be conducive to obtaining that long-term goal.

"Extreme pallor, coldness, shaking? Shaking that's getting worse? I should take you to the hospital right now."

He opens his mouth to speak, unhappy with the suggestion.

"You know I should, Jane," I add a little more softly.

_Scratch that. _

_I should have taken him to the hospital when he was hearing his dead daughter cry for him._

His head shakes back and forth. Obviously even more unhappy with the direction of the conversation.

"No, Lisbon, we don't have _time for that_! Every day matters! After we find Thea, if this is still going on with me...I'll go see a doctor then. You have my word. But not before we find her, Lisbon. We make sure she's safe first."

_If we find Thea - alive - there will be nothing I can hold over his head._

_And I can't even contemplate not even finding this little kid alive... _

I release an erratic breath.

"Because she's more important than you, is that what you mean?"

He almost growls his response, angered.

"She_** is** more important than me_, Lisbon! She's only a little kid, and she doesn't have a say in any of this. And if we don't get to her soon, she's going to be murdered. So you are completely right - she_ is_ more important than me, and the fact that she faces death by anti-freeze also trumps the fact that I have some hangers-on cold. I'm not a baby, and I don't need to be babied because I have a fever or because my hands are shaking."

That does it for me. A glint of my classic Irish bad temper tries to break through to the surface.

"No - don't do that! Don't twist my words around. That's not what I said, anyway - that she is more important. That's certainly not what I was implying! And we don't know what is wrong with you, either. You could be really sick! And I've turned a blind eye to it up to now, but what sort of friend would just let you self destruct, Jane?"

He closes his eyes abruptly. I can tell that he's trying to regulate his breathing.

"Lisbon - I'm not trying to...scare you. I just - _this little kid, Lisbon_ - once we find her, I'll do whatever you want. I swear it. Just - once we find her. Not before, okay?"

What I'd _really like_ is for Jane to see a therapist when this is all over, but I can't request that very easily without him completely closing off. Instead, I try my best not to glare at him for putting me in this position.

"Answer my questions immediately then, or I swear to God we will head to the ER _tonight-_"

He cuts me off in an attempt to mollify me. His hands are held up as if he's bartering with a lunatic, and I bite the inside of my cheek to reign in my temper.

"Sure. Any question you want. Ask. I'll tell you the truth."

He looks almost scared; his tone of voice, his eyes, his stance - are all pleading.

"What else, then? What else is going on?"

"That's really just about-"

"_What else_? Quit lying to me, Jane."

He swallows again, then relents.

"Muscle pain. Shortness of breath, sometimes. When I wake up, sometimes - not always, just sometimes - everything I'm wearing is soaked through. My shirts, my pants, even my vests - are all wet. But I'm cold. Sometimes I can't keep any food down."

I eye him critically, and it takes everything in my power not to reach for him. He's obviously not even trying to sleep properly, if he's going to bed still dressed in his three piece suit.

"Rigsby told me you were throwing up the other day. You told him you were "fine.""

He licks his lips now, seems to waver for a second, knowing he's been caught. I can only imagine how much he didn't want for me to find that out.

"I didn't want you to worry. I can't -_ you can't take me off this case_, Lisbon. But I've been losing a little bit of weight, but weight loss makes sense because I've been vomiting."

He smiles, stiffly, and with stark realization I can see that he _does_ look thinner. His face is drawn and looks almost angular. He also seems to be talking to himself. As if he's trying to reassure himself that there is nothing else going on. Nothing serious. That's what scares me the most, I think.

The fact that _he's_ scared.

I can sense it.

_Why did I not notice this before now?_

_Because it was cumulative?_

"Are you nauseous? Right now?"

Jane sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "Not really. No."

"But you've been vomiting, you said."

He swallows; it's more gruff this time.

"Just a few times. It's not that big a deal, Lisbon. My stomach doesn't hurt. I don't even feel sick, aside from the coldness. And the shaking is easy enough to ignore. I just can't keep very much down. Probably some sort of virus."

"If you are losing noticeable amounts of weight, then you've been vomiting more than just a few times, Jane."

I reach for his wrist, and he gives me a soft, quirky smile - fuller and truer than his previous wan attempt at a grin.

"What are you doing?" A hesitant, almost hopeful smile tugs at his mouth. Like he finds my assessment utterly amusing.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm checking your pulse," I state sternly, though the action itself seems to make him smile even more. "You don't have a monopoly on pulse taking, you know."

A few seconds later I let his arm drop back down to his side.

"So, Dr. Lisbon, what's the prognosis? Am I dying? And if so, can it wait until this case is over?"

I glower at him. "Don't be a jackass, Jane. And don't talk like that."

**_Don't talk like you don't matter._**

His grin blossoms into something hearty when he sees that he's pissed me off. "I'm sorry," he smiles to me. His smile this time is authentic. Here's the thing, though. He doesn't look very sorry at all.

_Not in the slightest, the bastard._

"Your pulse is...thready. No doubt your blood sugar is in the tank given your lack of intake, barring vending machine coffee. Anyway, I have something I want you to take. It'll likely make you tired, but you'll take it. No grousing and no complaints, Jane."

I let the threat of a random, emergency room visit linger unsaid in the air. He nods, as I scan the contents of my own duffel, then toss over a blister pack of 50 mg pink dimenhydrinate pills. He catches it with both hands, clapping the package together and then reads the backside of the medication cover with a slight frown.

"Drug pusher," he quips a second later.

"Don't give me a headache, Jane. Just take the God damned Gravol."

"But I'm "diming", now? Is that your plan to ensure I actually sleep? This stuff makes me loopy, Lisbon!"

"'Loopy'? Is that the technical medical term for it?_"_

_"Lisbon..."_

_"Jane."_

He just drops to his cot, and fixes me with a look.

"Unless you are allergic to the stuff, you'll take one. And when Rigsby gets back here with the Chinese, you'll eat a decent serving, because I'll be here. It'll stay down."

"It'll stay down because_ you_ are here?," he qualifies, uncertainly, as if what I'm stating is nonsensical. Which I guess, in a way, it is. I nod however, in resolute certainty and he laughs a moment later. It sounds more like a bark: his throat still raw from what I can only assume is a combination of unintentional but chronic vomiting merged with some still unnamed infection.

"You can't intimidate a stomach into cooperating, my dear. The body doesn't work that way."

"It'll stay down because you are taking an anti-nauseate, and if it doesn't stay down, Los Angeles has some good hospitals, I hear..."

Jane dramatically sighs, then swallows the pill down with the remnant contents from a Capri Sun drink stashed near the television. When the man had time to go and actually pick up groceries, I have no idea. The fact that he's drinking a kid's fruit punch beverage doesn't surprise me in the slightest, either. It's either fancy schmany food stuffs and Lapsang Souchong tea that he insists make life more complete, or else he's eating like a four year old. Making himself wonder bread sandwiches and fruit punch. Jane is the ultimate in contradictions: some mutant hybrid of childish and truly sophisticated.

Highlighting my point, especially of the former, he now makes a slurping, grating noise, then sucks the last drops of juice into his mouth. Smacks his lips to be a pain.

"Not taking care of yourself isn't going to right some perceived wrong, Jane," I state a little less forcefully as he plays with the left over package. Because it's high time he knows how I see his past. How I see the horror that unfolded around him.

**_How I see him._**

He closes his eyes. Clenches then releases his hands. I can see that they are shaking even more than they were a few moments ago.

"How can you say that? How can _you of all people_ believe that? I taunted a demon, Lisbon! I basically_ invited him into our life_. Into our home. To do whatever the hell he wanted to do to my wife and child! I basically-"

I grab his shoulders, firmly, before bringing his face upwards to meet my eyes.

"You _didn't know_ what could have happened. You didn't even _entertain_ it as a possibility."

"But I _should_ have._ I damn well SHOULD HAVE, Lisbon! _I entertain everything as a possibility, all the time! And Red John hurting them was just _so possible_, I don't know how-"

He stops talking so abruptly that the room fizzes with the left over remnants of his anger and pain. The air seems thick with it. Loud with it. Even though the silence now is stronger and more enveloping than it has ever been.

Jane also looks confused. So terribly confused. As if the murder of his wife and child is some horribly grotesque riddle. Some riddle that he's never been able to solve. But he's not facing a math problem. Nor a cryptogram. Or some sort of Sudoku puzzle he can work out with his fantastic mind.

**_He's dealing with a tragedy._**

And tragedies always seem so staggeringly preventable after the fact. Part of what makes them so painful, I think._  
_

"I should have known it was possible, at least," he states softly, some seconds later. "I should have kept them safe. But I didn't. I failed them. You might even say that..._I_ killed them. Because I should have seen what could have happened. I should have kept them both safe. _I should have_, but I didn't."

The words are his mantra. They are his obsessional message of penance - highlighting not only his prolonged guilt, but perhaps even perpetuating its existence in the first place.

His eyes tangle with my own, imploring me to tell him _why._

**_why?_**

Normally he hugs me.

This time, I'm the one instigating it. He gives in easily, and lets me hold him.

And then I feel his warm breath against my ear and order my heart to stop racing.

"I...don't _understand_, Lisbon. I know I'm missing something. I don't know _what._ I know I'm _missing something_."

And - really - he could be talking about so many things.

Why his mother abandoned him. Why his family was murdered. Why he didn't foresee what could have happened.

Or he could be talking about Thea.

But it doesn't really matter what he's referencing. All that matters is that my answer is the same for each scenario.

"You are not missing anything. You-"

"I'm missing_ something._ I know it. I know...if I can find it, if I **can** - _it'll still hurt, I know that_, but it will..."

**_Oh Jane._**

He's tongue-tied now, which is something I never thought I'd ever see. Not from him. Anyone else, maybe. Not him.

Our earlier conversation in the car, several days ago, plays in my brain.

How he was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder. Something _not_ in his file.

How, apparently, he doubts his ability to love someone else.

**_And I'm pretty damn sure he's never told anyone else that fear before._**

"You can't make sense out of what happened, Jane. No one can."

"I have to, Lisbon. I have to. For them. I have to have it make some sort of sense _for them_. My daughter never even got to live. She was here, and then she was dead. _She never even got to-"_ He cuts off abruptly again, as earlier. His voice is already starting to waver.

He's also grasping at ideas that don't make a hell of a lot of sense.

_He's trying to express his feelings of guilt in such a way that I will, likewise, see him as guilty. _

_Except that he's not guilty._

He's never been guilty. Regardless of his feelings.

His feelings simply don't reflect the larger, more objective truth.

"You're grieving, Jane. It's the only thing that _does_ make sense about their dying."

I hear him exhale against my ear, a strangled word beat back down into submission.

"Mmm?," I prod. "What did you say?"

"Yeah," he breathes again, more clearly than before, his eyes trained away from me. "I miss them a lot, Lisbon. I miss them everyday."

_God, I know you miss them, Jane. _

_How could anyone in their right mind not know that?_

He pulls away quickly then, as if ashamed to what he's just said and sits back down on his cot. Before long he is playing with the left over straw from the Capri Sun container. He extends and then compresses the straw over and over again, while his words reverberate around in my head like a ricocheting bullet.

_i miss them. _

_i miss them.  
_

When it's apparent that he's not going to say anything further without encouragement, I sit down on the edge of one of the beds.

_i miss them._

_everyday.  
_

"Jane?"

He stills his motions, but continues to study the straw, not quite meeting my eyes.

"This is what I think. I think you believe that if you stop hurting so much, that you're doing something wrong. And I think that some part of you doesn't want to stop grieving for them. Doesn't know how. That maybe you think it's wrong to stop feeling this pain?"

I expect him to deny it, or toss the suggestion aside. His mouth opens uselessly instead, then falls back down into silence.

A moment later I see him nod his response in the affirmative.

* * *

Rigsby returns after Grace, and deposits seven different take out containers of _Dragon Yum Yum_ on the table. I am not certain if it is the noise, or the scent of the food, that rouses Jane from his slumped position on the cot, eyes at half mast. But as soon as the containers hit the bedside table, he starts to rouse.

_Good old Gravol. _

_He's definitely going to sleep tonight, though.  
_

Grace quickly divvies up the soy sauce and napkins, and tosses a package of chop sticks to Jane - who yawns and sits up as we hear the door to the motel room being hurriedly opened.

"Poor Kimball. His PINEAPPLE Kung Pao is going cold!," Jane quips loudly just as the Asian man finally trots through the door.

"_Not_ funny," Cho growls, chucking his baggage down into the entry way of the motel room. "Pineapple is disgusting."

"Oh, come on Cho. Your throat's not going to close up, is it? You can just pick it all off."

Jane is scrapping his chop sticks back and forth to get rid of the splinters.

"You shouldn't joke about pineapple in food," Cho murmurs, and I smile at my noodles, not wanting to appear as if I'm taking sides.

"I shouldn't joke about _pineapple_? Lisbon are you hearing this? His perpetual litter-bugging could do us_ all in_, and he's concerned about pineapple? An innocent, harmless fruit?," With a pair of noodle entwined chopsticks Jane then points to the black satchel bag left smack dab in front of the motel door. He drops a sauteed carrot piece as he gestures animatedly, "I think that's what we concerned citizen types like to call a 'fire hazard', Choey. Leaving your satchel in front of the _only fire exit_ is a surefire way of-"

"Did you just call we "_Choey_"?"

Cho's lips are quipped into not quite a frown, and not quite a grin.

"I think that you need some sort of-"

For a man so upset not an hour ago, this rapid shift in emotions is a little disturbing to witness.

"_Shussh, Jane_," I state as calmly as possible, "less talking, and more eating, please."

The man has eaten, at most, 3 bites of food in the last 15 minutes, and the Gravol is certainly not making him calm enough. More than that, I feel as if I'm nudging a 1 year old to open his mouth and take a bite of baby mush. Sans airplane noises, or choo-choo train motions.

* * *

"So, tell us what we are looking at," I start, wanting to cut off the restless hyperactivity that I can sense is starting to move in on our consultant.

"This -_ this_ is a list of all the other sites where the other children were found. All found in cars, all appearing to be 'sleeping', right?"

I nod, and the others either nod or murmur their affirmation.

"All died outside of exhibit halls. For temporary exhibits. Take up, take down sort of situations. No real established long term structure."

**_Sort of like growing up in a carnie circuit._**

"Not the little boy, Elliot," Grace quickly supplies. "He died outside of the Bevington Science Museum. Fixed structure. Not like the others."

Jane doesn't look slowed down for one second. In fact, Grace's input only seems to spur him on more.

"Yes, but _Elliot's case_ was different in several very important ways. He was the first male victim of our killer. And his was the only abduction where a mass APB wasn't publicly broadcasted. Not like it would have helped much," Jane says sourly. "He would have just died sooner."

The FBI had been called in after the Rilke poetry had been found, due to a series of child abduction killings from a decade prior. In the earlier abductions the children had all been found a month later with severe cranial trauma. They had died immediately from gunshot wounds. All had been boys. And the killer had used a hunting rifle to kill the parents, then had taken the children. Then had killed the children a month later. To the day. In every case.

With the previous victims, all had been between 6 and 10 years of age. Elliot had fit. Never mind the fact that painted words from Rilke's work on the alley walls where the kids' bodies had turned up had almost seemed to assure the LAPD that the FBI had been correct when Elliot had been abducted. It had been their confirmation that this killer was the same.

The fact that the killer had drugged, and then cut Elliot's father to ribbons, didn't dissuade anyone from changing the profile. Elliot fit the first profile's victimology. He was a male, of the preferred age, and his Step Mom had showed signs of domestic abuse, similar to the mothers of the other killings.

But then Elliot had been murdered well before the time line. And the FBI realized they had made a horrible oversight. That the differences in victimology that they had stated was due to the killer's natural evolution - was actually nothing of the sort. Instead, they were looking at a completely different killer. Not a copy cat.

But an admirer.

And this killer was targeting child abuse cases, not victims of domestic violence. Even the tone of the poetry had changed, with a sexually suggestive and accusatory tone. Black paint over top Elliot's father's body made this patiently clear:

_"O you,_

_that a sorrow, that was still small,_

_once received as a plaything, in one of its_

_long convalescences..._

_You, who fall, with the thud_

_that only fruit knows, unripe."_

Someone who had read enough about the earlier crimes to latch onto the use of poetry, sure. But the attraction of vigilante justice in taking out men who had hit their wives and children wasn't the motivation any longer. And Elliot hadn't been shot in the head. He had been poisoned with antifreeze. And Elliot's father had been bound with duct tape, stripped of clothing, and cut up with a fileting knife. Drugged, but aware of every cut. His death hadn't been quick at all.

No.

This killer was considerably different than the 'Duino' Killer of the mid 1990's. Markedly so. Elliot's killer showed considerably more rage towards the fathers of his victims, but also considerably more kindness towards the children, since a small bag of Elliot's clothes, and a favorite monkey stuffed animal had been taken from the boy's home.

But the FBI had been wrong, and Elliot had been found 2 weeks and 6 days after his abduction, curled up in a sleeping bag, clutching a new toy of a NASA space shuttle in his stiff hands.

"Elliot was new to Los Angeles. He had only been here two months when he had been taken," Jane says quietly, disrupting my thoughts. "So whoever takes these kids, somehow picks up on the fact that they've been molested extraordinarily quickly. And none of these kids would have talked about what was happening to them, least of all Thea."

"Why _least_ of all?," Cho tests cautiously. "What's the reasoning?"

Jane exhales heavily. "Thea has Reactive Attachment Disorder, apparently."

Cho's eyes darken, but the others seem a little less aware of what Jane's talking about.

"Thea was adopted when she was wasn't quite three. Before that, she had been taken into Child and Protective Services at two years of age - after her biological mother had been found following a drug overdose. A neighbor reported the smell."

"Oh God," I gulp. "That wasn't in the file. Where the hell did you read that?"

"I paid a visit to Thea's old neighborhood today."

"Jane!" I hiss, only to have him hold up a hand, insistent to explain.

"I got to speak to an elderly woman who used to babysit Thea when she was a toddler. Child and Family Services didn't include very many details in the official report, as I had suspected. They glossed over the fact that Thea was found holding onto her mom when they finally called ambulance services. They also didn't mention that Dorothea wouldn't speak at all for nearly four months, and was deemed catatonic for 6 weeks immediately following the event. I can only assume that, given her age, they were worried about it marring her chance for adoption. No one wants to adopt a traumatized toddler whose stopped talking. Doesn't sound like the best prospect, does it?"

"But then she spent almost an additional year in foster care with three different families?," I ask, deliberately ignoring Jane's loaded questions. He's angry, and whether he realizes it or not, he sometimes resorts to goading simply so he can express his upset by riling up others.

This time, luckily enough for us all, Jane seems to understand what I'm_ really_ asking and provides the information without prompting.

"The other foster families already had kids. Two of the three stated that she would scream a lot and had nightmares that were disrupting the family. But that's certainly not all of it. She probably showed inappropriate affection towards the other caregivers."

"Inappropriate?," Grace queries.

"Children with Reactive Attachment Disorder are presumed to have grossly disturbed internal working models of relationships which may lead to interpersonal and behavioral difficulties as they grow up. All have experienced severe abuse or neglect at an early age, typically sexual or psychological abuse or torture. Less often physical abuse, although sufficient amounts of sadistic violence can also generate the condition. In a smaller minority, chronic neglect with no additional sadistic features can generate the condition."

Jane sounds as if he's reciting the words by heart.

"But typically these kids have been subjected to sadism?," I test, ignoring the pounding in my chest and hoping with all my might that no one else can sense how quickly my pulse is racing. Or more importantly - the precise reason why.

"Not necessarily sexual sadism, Lisbon. RAD is characterized by markedly disturbed and developmentally inappropriate ways of relating socially following a period of emotional poverty starting in infancy. These children have either grown up without any emotional affection whatsoever, or else they have grown up with distorted degrees of affection, interspersed with chronic and pervasive abuse. The children can't connect properly after this point."

"Would the killer have targeted her because of this RAD thing?," Rigsby asks around a mouthful of Lo Mein.

Jane seems to hesitate for a moment, then nods a little more slowly.

"Possibly. It's an idea. RAD can take the form of a persistent failure to initiate or respond to most social interactions or can present itself as indiscriminate sociability, such as excessive familiarity with relative strangers. It would have also meant that Thea would have gone off with a complete stranger_ much more easily_ than a child without this condition."

"Poor little kid," Rigsby exhales. "Where was her dad?"

"None in the picture back then," Jane states rigidly. "Or maybe Thea's mother hadn't known who the father even was. Apparently Thea's real mom had made funds as an "escort." Read into that what you want."

"So let me get this straight," Grace breathes, "This little girl is taken away from a home where her mom made her living by having sex with random men who came in and out of the house, with Thea present. And then Thea's mom dies of a drug overdose?"

"Only to then be put in foster care for the better part of a year, with three different families," Cho adds, his jaw clenching. "Before being adopted by a child molester and his clueless wife."

And I know what the team is thinking.

**_This little kid didn't even stand a chance._**

Jane rubs his eyes, but doesn't immediately speak. When he does, his words are dismissive.

"We just need to find her. If we can find her - we can get her help."

For a solid moment Jane just stares at me, and I find myself almost burned by the intensity of his gaze, so I look downwards slightly.

His hands are still trembling a little bit, and he presses down against his lap to still the motion.

If the others notice, they don't say anything.


	21. Chapter 21

**Title - Little Stars - Part 21  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **So I've made an attempt to get off this chapter more quickly than the previous one (still sorry about the time delays, guys!) Not a long chapter, by my standards, but it introduces an event that will become pivotal to helping both Thea and Jane start to heal down the road. Something they both need, in equal measure. Also: don't expect Jane to open up as readily with Lisbon as you'd want. The actual event that occurred in his own childhood won't be fully fleshed out until the end of the story.

Other than that, I didn't feel like switching to another POV in one chapter. Thea, believe it or not, is harder for me to write than the other character POV's. I'm always concerned I'm making her sound too babyish, but then I also am trying to portray a traumatized 7 year old who doesn't have normal ways of relating to others, and also had a very cut up and disordered infancy. Hard to get the tone authentic. :/

For everyone who reviewed chapter 20: **_THANK YOU!_ **As some of you know, I have been sick with a bleeding ulcer of my own (certain elements of the story are taken from real life. Mostly the medical aspects), and I was almost back in hospital last month. I'm going to do my best to provide regular updates from here on out, though...

* * *

_"As a child, I was never drawn toward depraved or extreme situations; I really wanted a normal little childhood. Unfortunately, that's just not what happened."_

- Augusten Burroughs

* * *

**Thea's POV**

* * *

Chicory is whining. I think he has to go pee. He's a very smart puppy. He always tries to let us know first.

"Don't go pee, Chicory. Mr. Rudy will be back soon and then he will take you out."

I really hope Chicory doesn't pee in the van. Mr. Rudy is already mad at him for eating one of my shoes. They were Beauty and the Beast Shoes. Chicory ate Belle. The other one of Beast is okay, but Mr. Rudy says I need two shoes.

So he drove us to this big Walmart and told me to stay inside with Chicory.

But Chicory is whining a lot now. And tapping his feet back and forth like he really, really, _really_ has to go to the bathroom.

I don't want Mr. Rudy to get even angrier at Chicory, so I pull the blue leash off from the wall and click it on his collar.

"Real quick. We hafta be super quick Chicory."

I don't want to get in trouble either. I can tell Mr. Rudy is very mad about something already. I don't know what. I don't think it's my shoes, but I'm not certain.

I open the van. I have to push on the door a bit because it's rusty. But first I put two pairs of socks on my feet, so my feet don't hurt on the pavement with the stones and the tiny rocks. I carry Chicory down from the steps of the van and put him on the concrete. He looks up at me like he doesn't know what to do. His eyes are droopy and tired. He yawns. He does that a lot.

"Go pee," I tell him.

**_S__illy dog._**

He starts to walk around a little bit, still with his tiny tap dancing feet. Tappity tap tap tap. I think that's because his nails are tapping the concrete and making the noise.

Away from us I can see a little bit of grass with flowers, and beyond that is a drop of my height or maybe even more than my height, and a stone wall, and then the traffic.

The car lights are coming on now because it's getting dark outside. The lights are white coming towards us, and red buzzing away.

I remember when I was still 6 - before Christmas - and I was walking home from Spencer's house for the first ever time that I was ever allowed, and I just went out and stood and looked at the cars with the white lights that were just starting to turn on because it wasn't really daytime any more, and the lights went ZOOM straight into my head and made me want to lie down in the street and close my eyes and have the light move over my body.

So that's what I did. I just walked right in front of the white lights.

Mom screamed and ran outside from our house, and the car that was closest to me went sideways and SCREETCHED and almost hit a fire drant or hydran I think it's called, and the man in the car then got out of the car and was almost yelling. But not mad-yelling. Scared-yelling.

Chicory whimpers now because the cars are so loud and suddenly I'm not in the street anymore, and it's not light, it's dark, and I'm not 6 anymore, I'm 7.

Chicory is staring at me. Then he barks. It is very high, his bark. Sounds like a girl bark. _Heek Heek!_

"Pee, Chicory. _Please_," I beg, and finally he whizzes on the grass. I look over the stone wall and wonder if I'd cut myself up or break both my legs all up if I jumped onto the other side. Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn't. But I can't try it because Chicory is here and he needs me to take care of him.

Then I see a little girl with yellow hair in big curls smiling up at me. She's littler than me, and she's wearing a purple playsuit with pink bows. Her hair is up in two pony tails with white ribbons. Her eyes are the colour of the ocean and very, very big. She looks sorta like a littler me, but she's really pretty like I wish I could be pretty. She has a sorta round face and when she smiles I smile back.

I hope she's not lost.

She waves up at me from beyond the wall and is speaking something, but she's too far away for me to hear. I squint my eyes and try to see her better, but my head hurts like it did when I hit my skull on the pavement when I was littler because -

_I had walked in front of the black car and stared at the white lights and my mom pushed me out of the way and I went SMACK right onto the curb and my head smashed. I felt my head go CRACKLE inside and then warm and fizzy on the outside too and little dots of red hugged my fingers when I touched my skull._

_My mom yelled at me to not touch my head, and then she screamed at the man in the black car to call the doctor people and 911. And everything was sort of murky out of my head but inside my head I felt very calm and very safe and warm. I looked up at the sky and the moon was smiling down at me, all yellow and happy. _

_I think it even spoke to me._

_I think the moon said, "Good job, Dorothea!" And then the man in the moon winked at me._

_And I felt good even though I had broked my head. _

_So I laughed._

I squint some more and press on my eyes now with my fingers a bit, and then the littler girl with the pony tails goes kind of blurry and I try to see if she's still speaking. The little girl, I mean.

Her lips are moving, so I try to see what she's saying.

_"Come with me."_

Yes, that's what she says, I think. Her voice is softer than the moon's though and futher away too.

**_HEEK HEEK!_ **

Chicory barks a little bit, and I pick him up. His bottom is still sort of wet where he just peed and I try to ignore the fact that all the gross germs are all over my sweater now. I try not to let it bother me. All the germs.

When I look back to see if the littler girl is still below the stone wall, I can't see anything. I guess she walked away to where the sidewalk is maybe, and I look at the machine that has that round button that you hit that makes the beeping sounds to see if maybe she's there with her mom or dad or something. But I can't see her any more and I can't see around the corner of the wall. It's too dark.

Chicory then makes a "mewwwy" sound in his throat. I pet his head and pick him up. He's heavy too - very heavy - so I move very, very carefully so I don't trip. Chicory is like a little baby, and he is so little and cute. I want to hug him and keep him safe so I move away from the stone wall so I don't jump or even fall by accident.

Just before we get back into the van, I see a lady coming towards us VERY FAST in a red car. She stops the car suddenly and then gets out and walks over to me. She walks like she's doing a skeleton dance. Like she scared herself, maybe.

"What are you doing out here, honey? This is very dangerous! Where is your mommy and daddy?"

An older boy - maybe a teenager - is with her. He is wearing sports clothing and he looks like he hasta go to the bathroom too.

"Mom - I'm going to be late for practice!," he whines.

"Jeremy! One moment please!," she almost scream-says. "Can't you see there's a little girl out here all alone?"

I feel my face go all red and burny. I'm sort of mad at myself too. If I hadn't stopped to look at the littler girl, I would probably have been back in the van with Chicory already.

Now I'm going to get in trouble.

"Chicory - my puppy - he had to go pee," I say softly. "Rudy told me to stay in the van. I just didn't want Chicory to pee in the car. He already ate one of my shoes."

I tell her that so she will know why I have no shoes, but why I have two pairs of socks on. I don't want her to think it's because Mr. Rudy didn't give me shoes or something bad like that.

The woman starts asking me questions then. Loads and loads. My name and how old I am. She thinks I'm 5, and that makes me more barassed.

"My name is Thea, and his name is Chicory." I hold Chicory up so she can see his tag. "Chicory is 8 weeks old, and I am 7 years old."

She is nodding.

"Well, I think we should wait here for your daddy or mommy to come back so I can talk to them."

It's funny, too. Cause I call my mom "mom." I only call my dad "daddy" because he likes it when I call him daddy. He calls me Princess. I don't think I look very much like a Princess.

The lady now gives me a smile that's sort of stiff like frozen-popsicles. I think maybe I was staring at her and didn't mean to, cause sometimes I do that. That's what Spencer says, and that's what my mom says too. That sometimes I just stare and stare and don't realize.

"I think I should just go back inside," I whisper, "I'm not supposed to be out here."

I start to open the van, but stop when I can hear Mr. Rudy calling my name and running really quickly towards me. He doesn't look MAD mad, but he doesn't look happy neither.

When he gets close, I can see that he's gotten me new sneakers - green - with a circle and a C on them. They are not like my old sneakers. They have the letters CONVE and then the bag cuts off the rest of the letters so I don't know what they say.

I can also see a package of Twizzlers, the pink strawberry ones, and a box of stomach medicine. The medicine is because Mr. Rudy saw me getting sick the other day. After the pancakes. He thinks I have a stomach bug. I feel sort of badly for not telling him that I pressed on my throat and made the pancakes came up on their own because the pancakes felt like foam in my stomach and were making me fat. I thought it would make him madder so I told him I felt bad.

"Is this your daughter, sir? Because I have to tell you, we couldn't see her behind your motor home. I almost hit her with our car!"

Mr. Rudy suddenly smiles. It's a stiff smile. Like his face is made of numbness. Not a real REAL smile.

"Get into the van, Thea," Mr. Rudy tells me.

I don't want him to be mad at me so I try to splain.

"Chicory had to-"

"Get into the van. NOW," he says more madly. Lower in his throat and not really growly, but sorta growly.

"Chicory had to go pee," I whisper. I hope Mr. Rudy hears me and knows I wasn't trying to break the rules.

Once inside, I put Chicory down on my bed and kiss his head. I don't know why, but I'm a little bit scared. My heart is all poundy very fast and my stomach feels all tight.

I go to the window near the kitchen table and put my toast and jam in the garbage and wipe at my eyes.

No toast. No more toast. No more stupid fat Thea. _Baby baby baby._

_Don't cry stupid baby. Stupid fat baby._

I pull back the curtain and can see the lady from the red car is still talking to Mr. Rudy.

Her hands are moving lots, and she keeps shaking her head back and forth like my grade 1 teacher when I started crying in class one day and couldn't stop.

I suddenly feel _bad bad BAD_ in my stomach. Badness all rolling around. I don't know why. Just my arms are all prickly and the hairs are standing up and I feel unwell. I want my mom. I want to go home with Chicory. Or go to the hospital with Chicory. I want to go _away away away away_ from everyone. Just me and Chicory and the beach and maybe mom, and maybe an ice cream. Or maybe the littler girl who wants to be my friend.

I wipe at my eyes because I'm being STUPID and nothing bad has happened. I try to force-think of Mr. Rudy in the line out with a bag of strawberry twizzlers and try to smile. He got the twizzlers just for me. He doesn't even like twizzlers. I try to force-think that and make myself feel less scared and sad.

I climb into my bed, and then suddenly I hear the door open up quickly and I know I'm being a stupid baby but I pull the blanket over my head. I can see Mr. Rudy come in with the bag that says WALMART, and the smiley face, and then he locks the door. I try to watch through the holes of the blanket.

He looks up at me, and seems to look right at me even though I'm under the blanket. His eyes are hot and glinty like when I gave him the horned dinosaur. But this time he isn't smiling.

"I'm sorry," I whisper from underneath the blanket. "Did the lady get mad at you?"

Mr. Rudy doesn't say anything. Just gets into his seat.

Then I hear the PING PING PING sound and the van goes BREV BREEEV and starts up.

"I didn't want Chicory to pee inside, Rudy," I say again, but still not loud. Just loud enough for him to hear me. "Please don't take Chicory away."

Mr. Rudy still doesn't say anything.

My stomach is tight again, and I feel cold. I grab Chicory and pull him as close to me as I can, and we both sit under the covers. I make little holes with my fingers in the blanket, and then look out at the white zooming lights of the cars on the highway.

And then I fall asleep.

My stomach hurts so bad.


	22. Chapter 22

**Title - Little Stars - Part 22  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N:** I did my best to denude this chapter of Canadian and British spellings and expressions. (Think I've gotten the last "mum", "colour" and "favourite" - but if any have crept in, I'm sorry). Goodness, those just come out. Ignore extra U's and/or questionable expressions, my Yankee friends. Spell check still not working. :/ Also - another experimental chapter, in terms of, well, everything. You'll see what I mean.

* * *

_"Fight and you may die. Run, and you'll live."_ - William Wallace Campbell

* * *

**_"Each year, approximately 15,000 people die in the United States from peptic ulcer related perforations."_**

* * *

At 6:00 my cell phone alarm starts to bleat. I swipe at my Nokia and quickly hit the END call feature, which terminates the noise.

I get up, forcing myself out of bed, and put on the weather channel, slowly increasing the volume until it is nothing more than a light thrum. Nothing excessive. But rowdy enough to slowly rouse my youngest agent from the depths of her sleep.

"Up and at 'em, Van Pelt," I say, almost amused, before grabbing a fresh sports bra and shirt, slacks. "Do you want to use the washroom first, or do you want another 15 minutes of sleep?"

I am rewarded when the redhead lets out a grumble that sounds suspiciously like _"mmm tired"_, and then pulls the covers back over her head.

_Mature..._

I snort, and try to recall if I was that grumbly upon waking up at the age of 26. Probably not. Not unless I was alone, of course.

But never in the presence of my boss.

Somehow - I find the situation almost consoling. Because all that really tells me is that Grace trusts me. That I'm not as prickly or as stand-offish as I was when she joined our team.

And that makes me feel good.

"Van Pelt?"

_Nothing._

Of course, to be fair to Grace, I never had to room with my boss, given the gender standards. Never mind the fact that the SCU team is a good 50% smaller than most of the other CBI teams anyway, and most have several female agents. On our team, before Grace, I had always been the lone female.

In a strange way, it's almost consoling. It's almost _nice_, as pat as that sounds. I grew up with brothers, not sisters. My mom had died before I had really even entered puberty. And it might sound strange, but for the longest time I had come to associate being female, or rather -_ feminine_ - with being weak. Gentle. Needing kid glove treatment.

Made me want to scream, actually, because I was the kid who in Catholic school took the strap over detention. I was the girl, who at 14, came between my drunken father and Gabbie. Little 6 year old Gabriel, curly haired, blue eyed - gloriously kind. I stood in for him because to not do so would have been unimaginable. To see marks on my baby brother made me sick. I did my best to always make sure there were none.

That's who I was. I prided myself on being tough, and never crying, and keeping it together when even boys would get scared.

I wasn't a_ girl_.

"Okay, I'm getting a quick shower first then, alright?," I state a little more loudly, deliberately trying to get my brain to supply kinder early morning memories than the memory of scared little brothers, and fathers who despaired and spiraled down into the meanest depression I've ever encountered.

"Grace?"

_Still nothing._

Of course, I always relied heavily on caffeine - something Grace typically eschews in favor of Yerba Mate or some other California health chick salad bar super-food favorite.

_Maybe I still am more a Chicago girl at heart..._

"Ok, Grace. But by 6:15, you're going to be up and getting ready for the day, am I right, or am I right?"

I don't get a response, and I leave it at that when Grace merely scrunches the pillow up around her head to add additional insulation against the volume of the television, as well as my voice. She suddenly looks and seems so much like a teenager that it takes everything in my being not to laugh.

"I'll take that as a yes, then?"

Still nothing. I sigh.

"15 minutes, Grace. Don't get too comfortable."

I smile and shake my head, then make my way down to the bathroom, grabbing my cinnamon shower gel and shampoo from my duffel bag. The scent has always invigorated me, and I appreciate that it doesn't smell like mint. Don't get me wrong. At one point in my life - before the chronic, unending bout of duodenal ulcers - I didn't mind mint flavored things. Spearmint, peppermint - I was fine with them all.

But then I developed that gnawing, gut-ache at the age of 21, while in my first year of training with the SFPD; suddenly I was doing _everything I could_ to avoid an attack or ulcer flare up. Which included downing bottles of tums and Maalox and other mint-tasting 'remedies' that really didn't do anything at all for the pain.

My biggest worry, of course, had been in getting really sick in front of a higher up, or getting reamed out by a superior officer for not holding my own. Or - worse case scenario - getting kicked out of basic training. Never mind the fact that the ulcers were ravaging my system, and my exhaustion was chronic. That didn't concern me back then. I didn't worry that I was in real trouble.

**I was just annoyed with my body for not cooperating with me.**

To this day, I still avoid anything that smells or remotely tastes like mint (or I can bring up bile and feel dreadfully ill for an hour or more).

Of course, my eating was affected.

* * *

_"Ulcer bleeding can act as an effective pain buffer, _

_allowing for the disease to progress unchecked, as blood coats the wounded tissue and limits exposure to stomach acid._

**_The biggest danger sign for the chronic ulcer sufferer _**

**_is intense pain that diminishes suddenly and for no explicable reason."_**

* * *

Over the next few years, a flare up could lead to me bringing up whatever fluid was in my stomach, and little else. Other trigger candidates included but were not limited to: anything with citrus, dried fruits, cruciferous vegetables, fried food, most grains, anything containing alcohol, anything with a kernel or a husk, most nuts and seeds, or anything high in fiber.

* * *

"_Warning signs of increased ulcer perforation include:_

_-a sudden decrease in blood pressure _

_-bringing up more blood than is typical _

_-profound dizziness."_

* * *

As the nausea increased, my appetite started to diminish. After awhile, I couldn't eat more than a half cup of food at any one time without vomiting.

I lost weight, understandably.

Bosco made a crack about my "stress diet", which I didn't appreciate at all. So he changed tunes, and started harping on about how I needed to relax. I bristled.

Later that day, I brought up what looked like the left over contents from a coffee maker filter.

I later learned that excessive bleeding of the stomach is altered by the stomach acid, and quickly turns the blood black from its natural bright red coloration. The acid damages the cell wall, essentially damaging the blood cell and oxidizing the contents therein.

Bleeding from the throat or higher up typically retains a bright scarlet quality, although sufficient esophageal tearing can still lead to death; bleeding from a dying stomach looks scarily similar to the curdled blood of a day old corpse and is almost always fatal without immediate surgery.

* * *

_"Additional warning signs of a perforated ulcer include:_

_-profound vertigo that makes it difficult to stand_

_-a belly that rapidly continues to expand despite lack of food ingestion_

_-pain that suddenly feels sharp _

_-pain that radiates around to the back." _

* * *

That should have scared me. To see that much blood. Undeniable. No more lying to myself. No more wondering if I had eaten something "red," when I knew better.

To finally know what it was, without question, sent out a flare of fear at the edge of my consciousness. The fear waxed and waned in relation to how much sleep I had actually obtained the night before. How coherent, in essence, I was.

But I still couldn't get it through my fool hardy brain that I should slow down. To stop? That seemed like the ultimate impossibility.

Because more than anything else in the entire world, I didn't want to fail.

* * *

"_If dizziness accompanies uncontrollable shaking, sudden intense pain, rapid heart rate or profound sleepiness_

_you are urged to dial 911 immediately."_

* * *

f-a-i-l-u-r-e

_to be a failure._

The idea terrified me.

To be a redundant needless person in a world where so many were clamoring just to survive. Where so many were afflicted by mental illness, cancer, autoimmune disorders. I just couldn't take up space.

I had to work, and strive and do something to help offset, as much as possible, all the suffering.

And I had always felt trapped by this looming possibility of failure. That scared me more than death, perhaps.

* * *

**_"Most importantly, if you suspect ulcer perforation_**

**_do not go to sleep."_**

* * *

_So I didn't slow down._ I kept pushing myself. Even on days when I spent the better part of an hour bent over a toilet, trying to quell the attacks. Of course, as my weight dipped down to the low 90 lb range, I didn't just look scrawny and small anymore.

I_ looked_ sick. Really sick.

At 27, while working of the McTier case with Bosco, the reality - _that I was barely holding on to my badge by a thread_ - hit me full force when I wound up bringing up half a bucket of gritty black blood after a particularly long work day. Not only was there blood, but after about ten minutes of gagging there was almost a good half a liter of it. And it wouldn't stop. Suddenly I was scared. No. Suddenly I was-

_Petrified._

Suddenly I realized - something was really wrong.

Not just with me stomach, but with me, too.

* * *

It was Bosco who basically cornered me in the office one night before our shift ended, and told me he'd go to our supervisor at SFPD and share his concerns unless I went to the doctor.

Bosco was the one who thought I was developing a problem with food. That more than just my body was taking a hit from the strain of malnutrition.

That, perhaps, maybe - it was starting to play with my mind a little bit. Nothing full-blown. Not, you know - an actual _eating disorder_. Just a "little bit of obsessiveness", he thought. It wouldn't even have to go in my file, really. Just a "little bit" of disordered behavior, just enough to make him "concerned," which is a word I had already hated back then, and have doubly come to hate since.

_"You look like a god damn walking stick, Teresa. You can't tell me you have a normal relationship with food anymore! When was the last time you ate something solid?"_

I had tried to dismiss him. Let Bosco know he was being _utterly ridiculous._

_"Like I've ever gone on a diet, Sam. Don't be silly," _I had scoffed, while taking another sip of Jolt cola. He had finally taken my life sustaining drink and had poured it down the sink.

_"Do I have to take you to the clinic myself? Or can I trust that you'll check yourself out? Get the help you need?"_

I had rolled my eyes, then.

_"You make it sound like I have some sort of problem outside of my screwed up guts. I told you Sam - I have a bleeding ulcer. I can't just eat donuts and pizza like you guys. If I eat that sort of deep fried crap, I'll be puking up my guts for about an hour. You want that?"_

His eyes hadn't softened. They hadn't lost their deep concern. If anything, they turned steelier.

_"Then you got to heal the ulcer, Teresa. Because this?," _and he held up an empty can_, "it's all I see you taking in these days. I don't see you even eating food anymore. And it's not just your weight. You look really sick. Even the other guys are talking about it. Please see a doctor."_

It was his worry that finally wore me down. I just didn't want the cumbersome man to be so damned _concerned_. Which actually turned out to be a good thing, because by the time I had an endoscopy, three weeks later, the doctor was fit to be tied with me. I had ulceration - severe - throughout my intestines. Pitting and profound scarring. Ulceration and erosion of my throat from chronic vomiting. My stomach was inflamed. I was profoundly anemic.

I ended up spending an evening getting a new bag of O+ blood from a stranger, Sam sitting besides me in the clinic, reading me funny quotes from an Engrish website.

So I have an inkling -_ just an inkling_ - of what it means to be scared of eating, of getting sick. Of not trusting your body to take care of the basics. And the nausea, the sickness, the pain? That was its own special breed of torment, awakening me up repeatedly while I brought up bile and blood at 2, 4, 6 am in the morning. I wasn't just nauseous: I was in chronic pain, and I was also sleep deprived.

At the same time, I was also an adult when it happened, and it hadn't been self-inflicted. Even so, I recall how obsessive my thoughts became. How odd and strange and distorted my relationship with food had become. How I had hoarded little packages of potato chips and chocolate bars in my desk, in my locker. Not to touch, not to eat - for to do so would have made me profoundly sick. But just to look at, just to keep on hand. As if the packaged items themselves could give me a bit of energy, simply by holding them in my hands.

_Yeah, I've had my issues with food._

But this little kid, Thea, must feel as crappy as I felt on my worse days, physically.

And God knows how much worse emotionally.

* * *

I rinse the last bit of shampoo out of my hair, then turn off the shower, drying myself quickly. I rub mango body butter all over my skin, then quickly brush my teeth, gargle with Scope, and glare at my reflection in the mirror.

Finally I pat on a thin layer of foundation mixed with SPF 30 sunscreen over my skin (just enough to help cover a fair smattering of freckles, and prevent even more from emerging). I decide that I don't care enough about my appearance today to worry about mascara, lip balm, or straightening my hair. Heck, before Jane ever came on the team, I rarely wore makeup anyway.

Of course, as a cop, I think I may have even commanded just a little bit more respect by appearing less girly, less high maintenance. I got less aggravating, sexist remarks. But then Patrick Jane happened - _just waltzed into our lives with his pinstriped suits and floral teacups_ - and suddenly, he wasn't treating me badly either way. He just seemed to smile a bit more fully when I made an effort to look the least bit feminine. I noticed that much, and as hard as it is to admit to myself, now, I was motivated to see him smile. Not that fake mask smile, but a real smile. Genuine. Just for me.

Because Jane didn't make my stomach jump around like a stable horse for the wrong reasons. For reasons of shame, or self-recrimination, or doubt.

_ His_ glances didn't make me sick and restless in my girl-body. Some weakling of a woman awkwardly stranded in the big-boy-cop world.

Jane didn't make me feel ineffectual, or stupidly out of place. Or _wrong_._ Jane's_ glances were filled with warmth of a delicate and refined sort. A humor with edge - like caramelized, if slightly burnt chocolate. The extra dark kind. Not super sweet, but sweet under the surface - if you gave it a shot, and just experienced it against the taste of something truly bitter.

The taste of nothing,_ of loss, of plying, cloying need and then **nothing**_ - being the most bitter taste of all. It was Jane who made me understand how truly layered pain could be. How, my own pain, so white hot, red, then a slow descent into a period of melancholic grey for most of my youth - was nothing at all like his descent to the pool of black. A quivering, living black. And here, for all my life, I had only associated that degree of darkness with death. But Jane was swimming in blackness every day when I first met him.

Even Jane's 'taste' was entwined with the scent of something burning. The scent of something that had been torched inside, and still continues to burn - but whose essence was one of gentleness. Despite everything that had happened to him, I could not dissociate that gentleness from his being. It had hung on through his worst nightmare. Through tooth and nail. It had stuck by Jane, refusing to leave.

_Because it was part of his inherent nature. To be kind, whenever possible._

In fact, the man is so anti-violence, that at first I'd roll my eyes at his _"run Lisbon! He's got a gun!"_ manner.

And for the first year, I almost indulged him his detailed elaborations on what he'd do to Red John, if he had the chance. His relentless rambling of how he'd _"shred the monster to ribbons with a knife!"._ I knew it wasn't healthy (_how could it ever be healthy, to talk like that_?), but I also thought it was all just the chaotic, acerbic pain of a broken man who had shirked away from a very necessary and present need for a psychiatrist. Of a lone and afraid child-man, who had no other outlet for his pain than to speak about his exorbitantly bloody revenge fantasies.

_'Uh huh, Jane,'_ I'd think, _'Sure you'll do that. Sure. You get scared by the sound of a car backing up, for God's sake! You flinch if a balloon pops, you little twerp! And you're going to go after a serial killer with nothing but a knife?'_

In my head, almost tenderly, my mind would whisper:

_'You're just a little wuss. So sad and lost.'_

And I didn't dislike him for it. Not really.

The temperament made me laugh, so out of character as it was with the world into which I had thrown myself. It short - it grew on me.

**_He grew on me._**

* * *

Deep down, what really started it was a _crush_.

A slight, very small, very faint crush.

At first, the attraction wasn't even there. Jane, good lord, certainly wasn't _my_ type.

(_My type wasn't insane. _My type didn't approach each new hike, or car ride, or ice cream cone like a 5 year old on a treasure hunt.)

In fact, as ashamed as I am to admit it now - I didn't even immediately _like_ Jane. I saw him as cocky and insincere.

I saw him as a burden - this worn out, hollow man who had been undeniably traumatized, but who somehow was just enough of a lunatic to think that he could help the CBI.

Then splinters of his past started to emerge, contrasted against his well maintained facade of glibness and something unfamiliar jumped up in my soul. A mixture of deep protectiveness. That came first, and came about more strongly than any other sense. But then the feelings grew and morphed, with new emotional colors adding their say as I truly became Jane's friend.

Perhaps even a solidarity of sorts: a recognition of deep, cast aside pain. Even to this day, I don't think Jane has dealt with, or even fully acknowledged, half of the horrors that have befallen him.

_Dammit - why does life have to be so complicated? _

_Why do emotions have to be so complicated?_

_Especially when they can never be reciprocated, by damage too severe?  
_

I stare at my reflection and try to force myself to think of something light. If I head out with these types of thoughts still plaguing me, Jane is going to know within a minute that I've been thinking about him. Worrying about him. And then he's going to become even more distant.

_More unreachable._

So I focus on old Simpsons jokes. Lame animal videos that my brother Tommy sent me of hyper penguins, and huggy porcupines from YouTube.

Ridiculous, stupid, kooky things.

Nothing that is tied to something bittersweet, something poignant. Something traumatic.

Finally, after a few minutes of doing nothing but trying to distract myself, I hear Grace's own alarm go off, and I hear the younger woman swear under her breath, cursing the blaring wake up call.

* * *

It's really no secret that I love Mom and Pop restaurants.

Especially since it seems like we now live in the era of the "buy out"; giant monopolies taking over, expanding their reach not unlike the tentacles of an octopus, feeding on all the smaller creatures of the sea.

The idea that a small, family owned business is still trying to make a go at it in this blasted economy is charming, for me. So I sit in _Enzo's Eatery_ and enjoy the non-commercial atmosphere and the wafting aroma of Mexican spices. I then come to a decision as to what I want to order for breakfast, and put down my menu. Wave at our waitress, who raises one finger, and smiles as if to say _'Be right there!'_

I nod, and study the others.

Cho is really the only one who seems to be equally alert to me. He's half consumed a black coffee and is filling out a crossword puzzle on the back of the restaurant newspaper with impressive speed.

Van Pelt is sipping at an ice tea. In another hour or so, she'll likely be somewhat awake. Like me, she's never been a morning person. Unlike me, she typically can't wake up before 10 am unless she's gotten sufficient sleep (for me, that's five hours; for her, that's eight).

Rigsby looks nearly as drowsy as Van Pelt, sipping away at a strawberry milkshake and playing an impromptu game of hang man with his not-so-secret crush on a napkin.

"Fivel," Jane whispers, staring at the makeshift gameboard intently.

He doesn't look tired, exactly. Certainly not drowsy. But he looks strange. As if he hasn't slept in a week - which (sadly) is probably not that much of an over-estimate.

From my placement beside him, I can feel the jingling of his leg _up and down up and down up and down_ besides me in his seat. He's restless. Almost manic in his actions, but his face and eyes are wide and see-through. Open but somehow not completely present, if that makes any sense. He almost feels like a ghost. A soft spoken, nerve wracked ghost.

"Fivel?...oh, "An American Tail" - of course!," Grace crows, suddenly perking up and sketching the letters into the slots, appropriately filling the grid clean. "Yeah, that fits the spaces perfectly. Thanks Jane."

Rigsby sends a dirty look Jane's way, but re-draws a basic gallows pit and turns the paper around for Van Pelt to take her turn.

"I ask if you want to play, you say no. Then you supply all the answers," the tall man grouses. "Either you're in, or you're not playing. But quit ruining the game for everyone else."

_Given the smile on Grace's face, I can only assume by "everyone else" Rigsby means himself._

Jane doesn't respond however, just whispers to himself.

"Fivel, Ducky, Sebastian, _All Dogs Go to Heaven_. And Toy Story. The aliens._ The claw_."

Cho meets my eyes, and gives me a penetrating look. It's as close to _concerned_ as I think I'll ever use to describe Cho or his expressions.

"What?" he asks in his brisk way.

"_All Dogs Go to Heaven_," Jane repeats to himself, his hands still working on the paper cloth in front of him. He's torn up two napkins now, and the remains sit in a little cloud of white off to his side.

"Hmm?," I say, lightly. When Jane doesn't respond, I nudge him with my shoulder. "What's all this about _All Dogs Go to Heaven_? And Fivel?"

Jane is nursing a cup of Earl Grey tea, and takes a break from speaking to drink the beverage. I try to inconspicuously shift in my seat to look at him. Normally, he sits opposing me at restaurants so we can talk. But lately, he's stayed closer to me whenever possible. In the field, on the airplane, in the rental cars. Right by my side.

It's harder to catch his eyes.

"Charley cried when the scientists tested on them. In_ An American Tail_. She hated needles. Asked me if the mice in real life are scared like that when they get needles."

I can only assume Jane called his daughter Charley. I've never heard the reference before, although it makes sense. Knowing Jane, he probably had a half dozen pet names for his child.

"What did you tell her?," I try, hesitantly. Almost nervous to ask.

Jane exhales, shakes his head. Fighting a never ending internal battle of _to tell, or not to tell. To speak, or to deny it. The pain._

"I said," and his voice sounds suddenly hoarse, "I said: '_Mice don't get shots sweetie, Daddy knows, don't worry, don't worry, no reason to cry Bean, shussh, don't cry_. Don't cry."

Jane frowns at his teacup, shakes his head. Looks up at me, his eyes misted. A tumultuous sea. A shipwrecked scene. Almost hauntingly pretty, his eyes. If not for the pain.

"She didn't wake up, because I lied to her, Lisbon. No monsters._ I promised_. She might have known, in the house - she might have sensed,_ maybe she would have woken up_. Charley was good at hiding. _Maybe-_"

_Damn it, Jane.  
_

_You didn't cause her death._

_You didn't create this nightmare._

"I told her there was no such thing as monsters, and she believed me. Liar, liar,_ liar_. Damn fucking liar, I am."

"Jane, stop it," I plead, suddenly aware of the volume that has been injected into his speech. I look around to see if any of the other patrons have been alerted to our table.

_I don't think so._

The place has a low level din of children yell-talking, and mothers scolding, and the sounds of an almost supernaturally loud kitchen. All of which are blocking out the relatively light commotion our table. Our small little world of empathy, and grief.

"You didn't want her to be upset. Totally normal." Cho says briskly about 10 seconds later, undoubtedly to break the awkward silence. Atypical, just as is Jane's disclosure of his daughter, his guilt. Cho's lips are almost scrunched inwards, as if he's choking on too much citrus. "You were a good dad."

Jane takes a sip of tea again, and when he puts his cup back down on the saucer, I can hear the rattling sound of porcelain that clinks against its base like trembling teeth in a hypothermic skull.

_His hands are still shaking._

_He's still sick. _

_It's possibly the reason for why he's talking about this at all.  
_

"You were a _great_ dad, Jane," Grace offers almost timidly a moment later, her voice the lowest timber of all - to which Jane gives a garbled, tattooed _hmmmmm, _deep in his throat. Wavering. Indecisive.

Not believing either of them, he shakes his head.

**_No, I was not a good dad._**

**_No, I didn't keep them safe._**

**_No, I lied._**

**_No, no, no, no, no._ **

_No Cho, Grace..._

_ Jane doesn't believe any of that to be true._

_Jane believes he blinded his daughter to the nature of evil._

_He believes he made her the perfect target._

_The perfect victim.  
_

He's not certain that _she didn't just sleep peacefully because of his promise. His 'lie.'_ Because he can't prove it, to himself. He can never know if maybe - just MAYBE_ she would have heard the sounds of footsteps that didn't belong in the house. On the staircase_. The footsteps of a monster. That maybe she would have hidden, if she had known to believe in monsters too.

Hidden some place Red John might never have found her.

_As if there had ever been a chance of that._

_As if Red John hadn't manipulated every single aspect of that night, and their deaths._

I can sense the doubt, electric through his body, and then something seems to break. Like the saturation point of rain breaking through a grey and overcast sky. It's abrupt, but I can sense it before it happens. A split second before.

_I do._

Jane suddenly stops his frenetic shredding of the napkin, his hands now itching with the cuff of his clothing. Just like_ that_ he seems to snap back into himself, as if awakening from a night terror. Realizing where he is, who he's with, what he's been talking about.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the table, avoiding our eyes. "I don't know why...why we are talking about her. This doesn't matter now. I'm-"

"That's not true. She always matters," I grab Jane's hand because, really, I don't care anymore about pretending Jane's okay. "The good always matter."

His face suddenly flushes with color.

"I haven't been sleeping enough," he admits, his face so red his hair suddenly looks even paler against his skin. "I usually get more sleep than this. I'm not losi-_ I'll be okay_," and he exhales suddenly, loudly, "I just need more sleep. I'm sorry."

"Jane, stop saying sorry. _Please stop it. _It's..."

_It's not okay._

_What's happened to you is so fucking far from okay..._

When I look up again, I can see that Cho has finally put away his crossword, and Van Pelt is studying her ice tea. Rigsby's large eyes stare up at me in desperation. Jane continues to stare at his plate, apparently humiliated for - _what? Being human? Confiding in the team? Admitting he's exhausted?_

_Do something_, they seem to implore.

I swallow down the tuberous lodging in my throat.

**I will.**

* * *

Our waitress comes back then, disrupting the uncomfortable atmosphere hovering over our table not unlike a mushroom cloud.

Her name is Conchita. She's a slightly plump girl of 18 or 19, with soft eyes. Kind.

"You decide now, sir? Dees one is very good," and she points to a photo of what looks like red rice and beans. "We make not too hot, not high spice? Better for your stomach."

_Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks Jane looks sick._

Jane has resumed tearing up his napkin. Tearing the edges with his fingers. It speaks to his degree of anxiety, if not shame.

"Sir?," the girl tries again. "You like rice and bean? I make smaller bit. Not too heavy?"

He looks at the photograph, bites his lip. Shakes his head.

_No_

TRANSLATION:

No I don't want_ that._

I try not to sigh. Somehow, even when he's deeply embarrassed, Jane still manages to exude the aura of a 5 year old._  
_

"Jane," Grace tries, barely audible. "What about the eggs? You _like_ eggs."

Grace is gesticulating with her hands. "Or hash browns?," she tries again, a moment later. "You have to eat_ something_, Jane."

"Or dees one?," Conchita tries again, bless her sweet little heart, apparently ignoring the interplay between the rest of us and talking directly to Jane. "Lots of fruit. Healthy for you."

She points a plump finger to a photograph of a very lush looking fruit salad. It _does_ look healthy - but also completely unlike anything Jane would ever pick, which is why his next response surprises me.

"Can I have a bowl of grapes?," Jane asks, still fiddling with his knife, rubbing the spokes over the pad of his thumb none-too lightly. "Green grapes with no seeds?"

"Just grapes? We have strawberry, too. And orange. You want many different fruit, or just grape?"

"Just grapes," Jane nods at his teacup. "Green, not red. Please."

_Damn, picky man..._

The girl wavers, then nods abruptly. "Yeah, we can get for you. Just green, no seed? Yes, we have green grape. And you, miss? You want green grape too?"

Hazelnut eyes are now trained on to me, and I give a small smile and somehow manage to not outright laugh at the innocent speech.

Instead, I very seriously order a Tex-Mex omelet, using the photo to aid in the delivery of the request.

"Good omelet. Customer favorite," Conchita takes our menus, and without hesitation gives Jane's hand a light pat. It reminds me of the soft touch I had given my grandfather as he lay dying in the hospital of kidney failure.

Jane's restless attack of his plate ceases for a moment, as the girl removes her hand and readies her pen to write down his order.

"Thank you, Conchita," he smiles weakly.

"You get vitamins, and you feel better soon, yes." She then walks away, order pad in hand.

"No eggs, huh?," I try to lighten the mood of unwavering concern. "You always get eggs."

Jane doesn't respond. Just continues to tap the butter knife against his left wrist, staring at the cutlery as it makes contact with his skin. The motion is unnerving me. My tongue suddenly feels too large in my throat.

* * *

"Back to the case," I state, wanting to bring everyone back to the present.

It's time to brainstorm.

"New ideas, guys. Victimology, quotes, abduction sites. This man is leaving clues, and we aren't seeing them. Jane's right - the most compelling piece is - how does he figure out these kids have been hurt? They must confide in him somehow."

Cho stares at Jane for a moment, then states, "what if this guy can read them? Read their behavior? What if he knows? Just waits around and looks for the signs?"

Jane stops chewing his fruit.

"You think he's trained in Mentalism?"

Cho shrugs. "We're trying to think outside of the box. And it would make sense. Even the FBI couldn't seem to connect the dots. They sorted through phone records, neighbor reports, they even had a graphologist analyze the writing script of the painting on the wall."

"Outside the box is _not trying to find Thea, too_. We haven't considered that option," Jane says, slight smile gracing his face. "Maybe we shouldn't be looking for her."

"What the hell? Jane - what are the?-"

"Outside the box is _alerting_ Thea, without alerting her abductor."

I have had enough insanity this morning.

"No, Lisbon. Listen. Why was the Amber alert shafted?"

Rigsby talks through a mouth of pancake. "Because it signaled the abductor, with Elliot. He died a couple hours later. Days before the normal time frame, too."

"Exactly!," Jane suddenly looks triumphant. "We give her a message that she'll get. Something that will stick in her subconscious, and work it's way through. Thea has problems connecting. She has a unique sort of doubt, a fear deep down, that people - people are going to hurt her. We just need to trigger her doubt. Tell her she has to run.'

"She has to_ run_?," I test.

Jane only nods. "'_Fight and you may die. Run, and you'll live._' Thea will know, she's run her whole life. She doesn't know anything but."

I have no idea the reference, but it's undoubtedly a quote.

He pops another grape into his mouth.

"Enough with the cryptic comments, Jane. Just tell us what's on your mind, so that we can all be on the same page here."

He finishes the last bit of tea, and pushes away his cup.

"Kids with Thea's diagnosis don't try _not_ to connect. They want to bond. They do," He looks down at his grapes, "They just can't...trust easily. They are scared to trust, and their minds just don't make it very easy, either. If they fight, they'll get hurt. Or maybe they'll even get killed."

His vocalized thoughts are near non sequiturs these days, and the only reason I can follow along with him is because I know him well enough. Can sense the leaps that his mind is making, even if everyone sitting at the table would probably appreciate a more fleshed out dialogue.

Rigsby, whose been done with his pancakes for a few minutes, suddenly nods and sits up straight in his chair. "But they can run. You wouldn't expect it. Metaphorically, I mean. But Thea must be good at it. She's probably run away from a whole lot, if only in her mind."

Cho crosses his hands over his chest. "If you can't outfight a predator, you out run one. And if you know what you're facing, you don't even attempt to fight. You just run from the get go."

Jane taps a grape with the back of the damnable knife. "_Mmm hmm._ Now all we have to do is spend time going over the known variables - what makes Thea scared - and finding a way of getting that through to her."

"Okay. That sounds like an overall sane plan, coming from you, Jane. But Thea didn't run from abuse, and she didn't run away from a stranger. The normal triggers that would incite fear or reservation are not working for her. Obviously."

"Right. We have to assume she willingly went off with whoever has her," Rigsby adds a second later, while Jane squishes a grape against his plate. "And really, unless her abductor really screws up...isn't just about any scenario better than the one she was in, at home?"

Not 15 feet from us a toddler is banging a spoon against his plate. I school my features into something warmer, and the little boy smiles at me. Waves. Then ducks back behind the table as his mother calls for him to sit down, orders him to finish eating his pasta.

"Thea went along with a complete stranger, because the attention given to her from a stranger doesn't feel any different than attention given to her by her bastard father. In her case, the devil she doesn't know might be better than the one she does."

"_Jane_!," I stress, glancing around. "Let's use a modicum of appropriateness here. That includes keeping our voices down."

He mouths a sorry, wiping his brow - and seeing the same little boy stick his head out from beneath the table two places down from us.

The little boy grins at Jane this time, waves again. Apparently, young enough children will wave at almost_ anyone_ who smiles at them. Part of what makes them so attractive to predators. It's not simply the vulnerability of their small size. It's their warmth and cheeriness foisted upon the most brutal heart. It's their _trust._

_It's a key feature in what attracts the most sadistic people to children, or if not to children, then to the mentally ill. The handicapped. _

_The fact that they don't just have a little person they can torment._

_No. It's more the fact that they have a little person that they can betray._

_And to sick minds, that seems to be an attractive prospect in a victim._

_But our abductor doesn't think he's betraying them. _

_According to Jane, he doesn't want to scare them. _

_Maybe there is an angle there that we can pursue..._

_If we can convince Thea's abductor that she's in pain, that she's sick_

_That she needs a hospital._

_That she's scared._

_**That she's dying.**_

_It sounds crazy, but Jane said it himself._

_Whoever has Thea doesn't truly get that he's causing the children harm._

"Hi! _HI_!," the toddler now warbles at Jane, breaking through my thoughts. From this new position, I can see how soiled his red and blue stripped t-shirt actually_ is._

_God, little boys are so messy. _

_What did he do, anyway? Smear Kraft dinner all over his body?_

Jane sticks out his tongue at the kid, and the little boy falls back against his high chair, giggling hysterically.

A moment later we hear the child's mother sternly state, "Benzi. Sit back down, and finish your pasta. Or no ice cream."

"Ice cree!," the toddler screams excitedly. "Chockey! Chockey cream! Yay!"

He keeps banging his spoon, however, so I highly doubt he is _eating_. "HI!," he scream-says again, waving once more, and trying to catch Jane's gaze.

The _silly man's face._

Jane looks away with a grin, not wanting to rile the kid up more so. I can tell it takes a good deal of his energy not to engage the little being not sitting more than 10 feet away.

For once, I'm surprised that he doesn't need to be told not to act like a toddler himself.

_As funny as it sounds, I'm actually proud of him for his reservation._

Not that it helps much, as a second later, we hear a shrill "Benzi!," as a tiny spattering of cheese noodles hits the surface of our table.

Cho, unsurprisingly, is the first to remove the noodles - rubbing them away with his napkin. Jane, of course, has none left to spare anymore.

"Do you guys recall the case of Tillie Hopkins?," Cho suddenly asks, as he rolls the napkin up into a tiny package, and leaves it at the corner of his own plate.

"Wasn't she that little girl from England?," Rigsby volleys.

Grace also seems to recall the reference. "Taken by '_The Sandman_'? She was, what - 9?"

"Eight," Jane states cleanly. "She was only eight. She has been adopted, just like Thea."

I remember the case vividly. "She got away on her own, though, in the end."

"Yes, she did Lisbon. Hence Cho's reference," Jane smiles - and _damn it, does the man always have to sound so patronizing?_

"Scotland Yard had the case," he continues on, the teasing tone now absent from his voice, "Didn't want to release a public amber alert or child abduction alert warning, as the last child believed to have been taken by the same perpetrator had been strangled four hours after the alert had gone out. So the British Police came up with an in-house school dispersion warning system. All kids were given envelopes with photos of Tillie, and these envelopes were dispersed on the first day after her abduction had been reported and received by local police authorities. Within 48 hours, over 26,000 families throughout three counties had dispersed photographic and descriptive information on Tille. Her height, size, how she spoke, and any other important details, such as the probable site of her abduction. The most important part of the new dispersal alert was that it got the information out to people who had kids, and would most likely pick up on the whereabouts of the child because they were more likely to interact with kids. And it kept the stressing information off the airways. 'The Sandman' wasn't to be stressed into killing the child, that was the theory."

"Didn't a little kid see Tillie at a gas station, using the washroom? Told his father?," Rigsby queries.

"Yes. The father approached Tillie's abductor, and demanded he release the child. Stupid thing to do, as 'The Sandman' then took out a knife and almost gutted the man, though he survived. The critical thing is that Tillie saw the violence from behind the washroom stall, and it prompted her to act. She crawled out from behind the stall, and away from the station. Ran straight out into the traffic in a panic. A mother with her three year old daughter stopped and immediately picked her up before her abductor could get half way across the street. Ironically enough, a cement truck hit him. He died almost upon impact. Too quick, if you ask me."

"So you think, what? That we should attempt a similar request? Jane, Scotland Yard had been working on an alternative to the Amber alert system _for years_. They had a rapid release system in place. We don't. We could waste more time just inquiring about that option than it's worth! Not to mention that the population size was considerably smaller in Tillie's case. Greater LA has over 9 million people, and even if we weed through that number to only include families of school aged kids, we are still looking at probably over a million and a half families!"

Rigsby seems to agree. "Yeah, Jane. It's just not_ feasible_. The geography and population is too large. The FBI considered that when the twins were taken two years ago. Even if we try to localize the site of abduction in Thea's case, this case is critically different. Thea lived on the West Side. She came from affluence. But all the other kids were found in poorer to middle class districts. We don't even know if that'll make a difference until she is-"

Rigsby stops speaking abruptly, his face quickly contorting into a look of near fear.

But Jane doesn't respond.

He merely skewers his next grape as if it's a hapless bug. After a moment, he rises, and announces he wants to get a bit more sleep in the van, tosses $50 on the table, and leaves.

"Fifty bucks for a bowl of grapes and a cup of tea? _Boss_-," Grace whispers.

"I get it._ I do_. His emotions are all over the place, I know. But that is normal enough. He shouldn't be on this case, and if it were up to me-"

I just don't know what the others expect me to do about it. I mean, I've already tried talking to him. He's skirted around the issue. In fact, the closest I've ever come to catching a glimpse of the inner workings of Jane's mind is when we sat in the van two days prior, after meeting Thea's pediatrician, and he admitted that he didn't know if he could properly connect with people. Didn't know if he really knew _how_ to love people, or feel love in return.

I was both consoled by the fact that he would confide that much in me, as I was terrified that there could be some truth to his belief. But that's not something I'm going to share with the rest of the team. That information was provided to me, and me alone. _Intended for me alone_, if it was intended to be revealed at all. I just don't know what to do with it, now.

If anything, I feel even more restricted. Even more aware that any word I exchange with the others - especially if it clues them in about my own worries - could be seen by Jane as a type of betrayal. The one thing I suspect he's experienced quite profoundly in his life, perhaps even violently so.

No.

This is something that I alone will have to help him face.


	23. Chapter 23

**Title - Little Stars - Part 23  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N:** Ahhh! I'm sorry! I need to update much more frequently and stop over-committing myself to, well, _everything_ in existence (work, tutoring, volunteering, kickboxing, training for a half marathon etc.)

Or I at least need to stick to a writing schedule.

Or both. ;) Next chapter will be up sooner as it is already half-way completed. :)

**Also, a reminder:** I started this story awhile back, before Hightower left the show. So I can't just scrap her now. Take it as a pre-2012 story if you'd like, or a slight AU story. It's probably easier to read this as an early 2011/ later 2010 story time frame, honestly.

**A/N part 2:** Yes, Resnick's program (through UCLA) is a real psychiatric program for children in Los Angeles. _Doing research for stories is fun!_

* * *

**Lisbon's POV**

* * *

_"Am I suffocating right? _

_Is there anybody watching? _

_Is there anything outside - that might keep me here?" _

_-_ Neuroticfish's "Suffocating Right"*****

*****_great song. I highly recommend it!_

* * *

**LISBON'S POV**

* * *

I go to the van first, letting the others mull over their meals and avoid the awkwardness of a Jane confrontation.

When I get to the driver's side door, I scan the vehicle. Sure enough, Jane has switched places and is apparently napping in the passengers side seat.

I unlock the door slowly, taking pains not to wake him if he is, indeed, sleeping. God knows he doesn't get enough sleep as it is. But I catch him flinch, and know he's likely just trying to avoid A Discussion. A copy of_ "Better Tank Care for Your Betta Fish!"_ is resting on his lap. Obviously a holdover brochure from the last people who rented the vehicle. And since it has absolutely nothing to do with this case or with anything pressing at all -_ of course_ Jane would want to read it. _Only makes sense to read a book about exotic fish care._

I pull the brochure from his torso and watch his eye lids flutter.

_Gotcha._

"Come on, Jane. No time to nap right now. Please get up."

He let's out a slight sigh then rights himself in his seat, doing up his seat belt. I notice the weariness in his movements and feel badly.

Whatever he's dealing with right now - the emotional strain he's going through - I cannot begin to understand. The man has a warning in his file for possible PTSD.

_He shouldn't be working on this case at all._

"I'm tired," Jane complains softly, as if reading my mind.

"Then maybe you need to sleep properly at the end of each day. Look, Jane,_ I know_ you're not sleeping properly."

His gaze flows over to the dashboard and after a moment I see him shrug.

"I've never slept well and I've always had nightmares. Even when I was married. Did you really think I'd sleep better on a case like this?"

I don't appreciate the note of accusation in his words. Nor did I know that he used to suffer from nightmares _before_ his family was killed.

_How the heck would I have known something like that?_

"This wasn't my wish, Jane. I didn't want you on this case. Hightower thought this child had a better chance with you working the case. I wanted a different department to take it."

"Cause I'm obviously so screwed up, huh?," he says glibly, and for one mangled second I want to slap him.

"You are making this impossible for me. You must know that. You've put me in a no-win position, and I can't help but wonder why. Is this a test to see if I care about you? Because I do. I'll never _not_ care about you."

That seems to do the trick.

He's finally quiet.

"Look - I know that we have a lot of stuff to discuss once this case is over-"

"No we don't," he interjects suddenly. Almost shrilly.

Anxiety isn't a good shade on him.

"We _do_, and it's important that we do. But we have got to hold it together until this case is over. So please take better care of yourself, Jane. If you can't do it for yourself, please do it for me?"

It's a low blow, and I know it.

A second later he fidgets in his seat, seemingly upset.

"What?," I question.

There's a look of resolute fierceness mingled in his features. As if I've just called him something cruel. Done something mean.

"Jane - _what is it_?"

"I'm not broken," he professes, injured.

"Did I indicate that you were? Do you think I'd even let you work any case at all if I thought you were?"

I'm a little confused as to how my genuine words of concern have suddenly caused Jane such upset.

"You don't have to talk to me as if I'm mentally ill. I'm not sick. I'm not-," and now he looks as if he's on the verge of tears.

_His mood swings have been out of control lately, and are doing nothing to help his argument._

"Stop that," I say, gently encircling his wrists with my hands. "Stop assuming I'm thinking the worst about you - because I'm not. You're my friend. I want the best for you. I don't think you are broken, or mentally ill. I think you are exhausted, and I think you're not eating properly. I think that any person who has lived through what you have lived through could-"

"Could _what_?"

But then he jumps away from me as the lower left hand door begins to ping.

_Damn it._

Rigsby is back. With two different Styrofoam containers.

"I asked them to pack a side of hash browns and a bean burrito for you Jane. In an hour, you are gonna be starving. You can't just pick at grapes and have any Go power, man!"

I nudge Jane with my hand. An _'And what do we say when people do nice things for us, Patrick?'_ sort of nudge.

"Thank you, Rigsby. That was extremely thoughtful," I speak for our suddenly mute consultant.

Rigsby shrugs, a little uncomfortable. "Sure thing, boss. Anyway, Cho and Van Pelt are going to be out in another minute or so."

The car is suddenly enveloped in quiet. From my vantage point in the driver's side, I can see Rigsby's concerned gaze trained on the back of Jane's head.

_Oh, Jane. We all care about you. When are you going to realize that?_

* * *

"So we have to head back to the 54th LAPD District. Agent Carlson is waiting to speak with us. Apparently a woman called her local district with a complaint of a motor-home incident that occurred outside of a Walmart. Said a little barefoot girl was walking around holding onto a puppy. She almost hit the girl with her car."

Cho frowns. "Our kid didn't have a dog. Didn't her father have an issue with animals? Wouldn't even let her have a fish?"

Jane's Betta Fish book suddenly flashes in my mind.

Grace nods. "Yeah, he wouldn't let Thea have a dog, or even a kitten. Apparently that's what her aunt told me. Dorothea wanted a puppy first, but her dad wouldn't have it. So then she started asking other animals - a kitten, and then apparently she wanted this male rat that she saw at the mall pet store, and then she asked for a dwarf hamster. Smaller and easier to care for pets. She even tried to bargain her way into having a frog. You know those little rocks we found in her bottom drawer, boss?"

I nod slightly, watching the traffic.

"Well guess what those were?"

"Her watchers," Jane supplies suddenly, apparently not getting that the question was directed to me. "They were more than pet rocks, Grace. More than rock animals."

_It's probably true, too. When IS Jane ever wrong about stuff like this?_

"Yeah, well, apparently Thea had an intense draw to animals and babies. But her aunt makes it sound like she thought animals were angels, or something. I mean, it's weird."

Jane shrugs. "Not really. It makes sense to me. Babies would never hurt her. But babies are human. They grow up. When they grow up, they _might_ hurt her. But animals are a different species. In her mind, completely elevated. My guess is that her primary experience with animals has always been of the domestic or pacifistic variety. A photo book in her parents room, by her mom's bedside table, held photos of a recent family trip. Couple months old, tops. The interesting photos are the ones of Thea at the petting zoo. She looked almost _genuinely happy_ in those."

"But 'watchers'?," Cho tests. "What does that even mean?"

"Did you know that in The Old Testament Book of Daniel, angels were sometimes referred to as "_The Watchers_"? And some of those rock creatures were drawn with what I can only say look like wings on the back. I also found a very large book on Angels in Thea's school book bag. It had the name "Dorrie Miller" inserted inside, in a child's script."

This little girl had a pile of different light colored stones hidden throughout her room. All drawn with ink and crayon. Horses, rabbits, several that looked like cats. The most disturbing ones were drawn in black and red paint, and found in a ventilation chamber where the child had also hidden bloodied underwear. Size 5X, dotted with butterflies.

Butterflies drenched in red.

It made me almost physically sick, and I know Grace had been as horribly disturbed as she had bagged the material for evidence and forensic examination.

After all, until we found that evidence, Jane's assertion of more forceful trauma had been more or less conjecture.

Yet he had asserted from the beginning that she had been raped. The other children hadn't been victimized as aggressively. As completely.

Jane had known. He had known from the very beginning that Thea's experience had been even more violent and perverse than the others.

_Somehow he had seen what we couldn't, or didn't, want to see. _

_And he had seen it immediately._

"Dorrie Miller?," Rigsby says after a minute, munching on a package of Lion's mints. Goofy man just ate more food than half the team, and has still reverted to crunching up mints to assuage his appetite.

"Probably the eldest child of The Millers," Jane says quietly. "Spencer's family? I've sensed a lingering sadness about them. The littlest one, Spencer, seems more or less immune. But it was, _cast_ - so to speak - across the others. The eldest daughter, in particular. But the age difference of 8 years wouldn't have bought sufficient time for her to have been in any way responsible for the death. Nothing like a babysitting accident. My guess? Not abducted. Certainly not murdered. Something far more mundane than that. Choking, perhaps. A childhood illness, possibly. A girl died, obviously, and it probably happened about a decade ago."

_A decade ago. _

_It was almost a decade ago when Jane lost Charlotte._

"Interesting," Cho states evenly, while I swallow down a lump of pain for our friend, "but what does this have to do with Dorothea Castleton?"

"Meh - not much," Jane states, "_**except**_ for the fact that this isn't _any book_ Thea kept in her backpack. This is a book on the angels, with Catholic saints mentioned, and the inside pocket talks about Dorrie's confirmation. It's not an item that the Millers would have just handed over to Thea. Something given to a child - now deceased - as a confirmation present? No, _that_ would have been special to her parents. There's no way they would have given it freely to Thea."

"So you are saying - what? You're saying that Thea _stole_ it?"

Jane sighs, frustrated with the situation. "I wouldn't use the word "stole," Lisbon. It's such an unpleasant word. More like.._.took for protection_. She may not have realized the importance to the family, either. I highly doubt she'd have taken it, otherwise."

"Strange thing for a child to take for protection, though. I mean, if the other girl died and Thea knew any of that at all? That sort of stuff would have spooked me as a kid," Rigsby states.

"Thea has a very distorted view of life and death, though," Jane reasons. "I was checking out her medical files from the previous year. Did you know that she was taken into the emergency room around Christmastime with a skull fracture and a major concussion? Not to mention a broken leg. The cast only came off last month, actually."

"Physical abuse?," Cho guesses with a frown.

_Although it doesn't really fit._

Dorothea's father was a monster, sure.

But he bought her frilly dresses and made sure her hair was perfect at all times. Even her toys were kept in perfect condition. Her room was cold. Like a museum. The child wasn't allowed to play, wasn't allowed to get dirty, and certainly wasn't allowed to act like a child.

Her injuries were the most perverse imaginable. But they were also largely internal - both physically and in every other sense.

"Mr. Castleston was a coward that certainly didn't want physical marks on his daughter. Not on her exterior person," Jane supplies, studying me before adding, "_No._ The injuries weren't from any sort of physical attack. Not in the _"physically abused"_ sense, I mean. Apparently Dorothea walked right out in front of a speeding car. Some sources say she did so deliberately."

Grace looks stung. "_What_ sources?"

"The driver, for one. Not to mention Thea's mother. Her mother even says that Thea looked up at the sky afterwards and laughed. The father actually had to bully his daughter out of the hospital and against medical advice. They treated her for her injuries, kept her for 90 hours to ensure that she was physically stable enough for release. But an acting physician - I think the notes say a _Dr. Fortusci_ if I'm not mistaken - wanted Thea to speak to a child psychiatrist afterwards, and Mr. Castleton said no. Hmm, I _wonder why_."

"For the most obvious reasons. She might have talked, if pressed. Children her age don't just walk out in front of traffic. And no normal person would laugh afterwards," Grace sounds constricted. "And she must have been in pain. _God, this little girl_..."

Jane's eyes mirror Grace's own empathy. "She was apparently not concerned with the pain, Grace - or the fact that her leg was broken. She was displaying schizotypal symptoms en route to the hospital, too. During admittance and treatment."

Rigsby stops his crunching of mints. "Whass t'ha?," he says messily, before swallowing. "Is that like schizophrenia or something? I thought this kid had that RAD thing instead?"

"Reactive Attachment Disorder? Possibly. No one could fault her, if she did. But no, schizophrenia is a different affliction, Rigsby. Considerably different. And schizotypal personality disorder is another condition. No one is saying she even has_ that_. But, unlike RAD, Thea was starting to demonstrate symptoms of psychosis."

"Like what?," I ask shortly.

_This case is getting more and more bizarre and horrifying every day._

Jane puts out his hand for his satchel then, which Grace supplies quickly, and he looks impatiently around until he finds a burgundy bound leather journal.

"Damn it Jane, please don't tell me that you just took that from the Castleton's!"

He gives me a patient smile, then proceeds to hurriedly make his way through the diary until he finds what he's seeking.

"She was displaying odd thoughts and inconsistencies in logic, mostly. Such as problems with attaching emotions to non-living objects, and crying spells that seemed to come out of nowhere. Rigid body posturing, almost like what you'd see in someone with catatonia. And right before she was injured by walking out into the street, her mom wrote about how Thea was convinced that she had guardian angels watching over her. She also thought that she could see ghosts of animals in the backyard. Here listen: _"Thea told me today that she can see rabbits jumping outside, under the moonlight. She says they are all white, like white chocolate - even their eyes - and that she can see the fence posts through their bodies. She says that their bodies are not 'solid', but remind her of smoke, or "pixie dust". I asked her if she saw the rabbits in a nightmare, and she laughed and said to me, "no, mommy, I can see them when I wake up!_""

"So this kid was hallucinating? Well that's just great. What else can life chuck at her?," Cho demands.

"Her mom states in her journal that she wanted Thea to go for tests and treatment at Resnick's Child program," Jane adds, glancing at Cho, but not otherwise commenting.

"That's UCLA's Neuropsychiatric inpatient program? Jesus, how sick was this kid?," I query out-loud.

_Obviously, it's a stupid question if this little girl was hallucinating._

"_Sick._ Because even if we want to chalk up ghost-rabbits to an incredibly active imagination, she was also displaying traits of a more sinister ilk. She was having perceptual problems. Difficulty with judging distances. Sounds were too loud, when everyone else was fine. Lights too bright. That sort of stuff. Plus panic attacks, understandably. Her primary doctor even mentions Thea's obsession about "trivial details" in his patient notes. She'd memorize lists of bus routes, and all the names of the star clusters. She'd inappropriately start talking about animals when doctors were asking her very specific questions that had nothing to do with her interests. According to her mom, Thea was convinced that she could 'speak' with animals too. Not only that - she also thought that they could speak directly into her mind, and that they could read her thoughts."

"Great. An child-rabbit version of _The Shining_," Cho mutters. Despite the flippant tone, I know he's equally unnerved by the topic that this child was so psychologically ill.

Holding up his index finger, he reads softly, "Dec. 12th, 2010. - _this is the mother's journal_," and Jane now sighs before continuing.

"_I am furious with Russell. Absolutely furious. He never takes my concerns seriously. Something is terribly wrong with my baby. I know the adoption agency warned us about problems with attachment, but Thea has her moments of perfect attachment with me. When painting, or at the park, or sometimes playing games. She's such a gloriously sweet child. There is no other word that describes her better. She gives hugs so freely and from the heart. She is just so sensitive. But she has so much love inside of her. I love my little daughter so much, yet I'm scared that she's slipping away from us. The other day, when she was getting her bath - she screamed at me to go away when I came inside to give her fresh towels. Actually screamed. I'm not stupid. I know kids need space. But she's not even 7 years old. She's so secretive for a 6 year old. What worries me most is the stuff she does when she doesn't think I can see her, or hear her. I heard her talking to the moon the other day. She said she had found a way to join him, and would try to "visit him soon." She called the moon "Abariel." I am so scared for my daughter. I know she's creative, but this seems like something so much more than being creative._" And her mother underlined "more" three times for emphasis, too."

Even Cho looks dismal after the read.

I decide to find a drive thru, and pull over in a Sonic parking lot.

We have already made good time and we will be over at the precinct with time to spare. Right now, I am more interested in fully listening to what Jane has finally discovered, and what he can still disclose.

* * *

"Do you recall an '_Abarie_l' from your Catholic school days, Lisbon?," Jane tests, as I pull the vehicle into a lot furthest from the restaurant. No sense in tempting Rigsby unnecessarily.

I shake my head, disturbed. "Anything else?"

"Oh yeah. A whole whack of information. Here's another passage, not even a week later._ "Dec. 18th, 2010. Russell is out with a client tonight, so it's just me and Thea tonight. Today was her last day of school before winter break. She brought home a snowman made with cotton baton that reads "I love you mommy" and she even let me give her a hug. It made me feel better. She still freezes when I hug her, so I had to make it a 'silly-mommy' hug, and picked her up and swung her around a bit until she laughed. At any rate, I don't care what the psychologists say. My daughter is going to make it. I'm not giving up on her. She shows empathy all the time. She's not damaged! But she's hurting and I don't know why and it's killing me. I want her to see another doctor. I'm thinking she needs to be admitted for tests. Maybe someone is hurting her at school, or at dance. Somewhere. I tried to talk to Russell about it and the man is so controlling sometimes. Told me off for being a 'smothering mother.' Anyway, I delighted in putting up Theye's art on the fridge. Russell hates it when I put anything up on the fridge, but he's not here, so I'm doing what I want this week_! _Got to go. Theye is calling for me to watch "A Bug's Life"_."

""_Theye?"_ God, Jane - this mother sounds like she really had no idea. She really loved her daughter," Grace mutters, stunned by the revelation.

Jane nods carefully, his eyes heavy. "I think she did love her daughter, you guys. She was also starting to figure things out. I don't think she suspected her husband was...hurting her little girl. Or she just couldn't conceive that anyone could be so evil. But she knew something was wrong, and was trying to figure out what it was."

_God. _

_This woman didn't deserve to die. _

_She was completely innocent. Just like Jane's own wife and child._

_Just like Jane. _

_Just one more victim.  
_

It had been all too easy to assume both parents were complicit and knowledgeable of the abuse their children had undergone. Now, Jane has provided enough support to suggest that our killer _doesn't care_ about complicity.

He_ will_ kill the innocent. And so he's not killing these kids just because he feels the children are _damaged_.

Or in pain.

He will kill for the sake of killing.

This new found knowledge makes me queasy and sick, and suddenly the air in the car feels 10 degrees cooler.

* * *

Agent Carlson waits for us in the main waiting room for the 54th.

"Senior Agent Lisbon," he states professionally. "Thank you for coming so quickly. We have important information to provide to you."

"This is about the woman who almost hit a child with her car two nights ago?"

Agent Carlson nods. "Apparently, the child was out wandering around dusk. Carrying a puppy. The woman - Ms. Davinda Peters - was getting a knee brace for her 15 year old son, and was in a rush. Late for a soccer practice. Said the little girl came out of nowhere, holding the dog. Wasn't wearing any shoes, just socks."

"That's strange," Jane mulls.

"Apparently, according to this little girl - the _puppy ate her shoes_."

Despite the seriousness of the topic of conversation - I cannot help but smile. _Somewhat._

Jane, apparently, finds the information equally amusing, and turns to me with a grin on his face.

"Probably why they had parked at a Walmart. This kid would have needed new shoes if a puppy ate her previous ones," Jane says with a grin. "So we have a little puppy to thank for this girl being spotted?"

Carlson shrugs. "Well, I just recalled the name from an internal Amber alert."

I glance over at Jane, who is sitting good naturedly on the 54th precinct's couch. He's even shut his eyes, and has propped his feet up.

Quite at home, apparently.

_ I'll have to reprimand him for his atrocious manners, or lack thereof, later._

At any rate, Agent Carlson doesn't seem to care.

"Any reason why you think this is our girl, Carlson? Not some random child?," Jane says easily.

"Well, this child said her name was Thea, and she told our witness that she was 7, even though Ms. Peters said she seemed much smaller than a typical 7 year old. More like a kid of 4 and half or 5 years? Tiny. And if it helps - the little girl was holding some sort of spaniel dog. Told our witness the dog was about 8 weeks or something. Kid gave it a weird name too. Chimney, Chickney, something like that?"

"Chicory?," Jane tries, and is rewarded with a smirk from Agent Carlson.

"Yeah - that's it. How'd you guess that?"

"Thea was responsible for naming the class hamster Portabella, and well, come on. That's not exactly typical. Plus, I found a book on Victorian flower meanings, and another book on Roman mythology, in her drawers. One of the pages she had torn out and hidden with her - rock people," Jane seems to be fully addressing me, now, as Agent Carlson would understandably not have any clue what to make of the reference.

"This little kid was - unique. She has a collection of rock pets," I translate to Carlson, knowing that more than likely - the next words out of Jane's mouth are still going to throw him for a loop.

"Lisbon, this has to be her! Thea had pages torn out that she kept in that vent! Pages with angels, and pages with plants and other miscellanea. One page stood out to me, because it was a blue door with the words "home" that she had written underneath a drawing. She had drawn over-top a page on the special properties of the Chicory flower. The page explained that in Roman Folklore, the Chicory plant was believed to be able to open locked doors."

_Open locked doors?_

_She must have equated the plant with freedom._

"This was her version of a spiritual pursuit, Lisbon. This child was looking for clues, and beings, that would take her home. She must have felt that the offer of the puppy was some sort of divine sign."

Carlson, bless him, looks beyond confused. Not that I can blame him one whit.

"Let me get this straight - this kid thinks her dog is some sort of _angel_?"

Jane puts on his jacket now, and starts to make his way toward the 54th Precinct's kitchenette.

_It's tea time, apparently_.

"Not just her dog. She probably feels that whomever has taken her is an angel. An angelic liberator. Someone divinely inspired to help her."

* * *

Agent Carlson, while not gifted with Patrick Jane's razor sharp wit, is no doubt a good agent and a kind man.

He's currently looking through the staff break room cupboards for tea for Jane.

"Sorry, Mr. Jane. We don't have any bergamot or anything like that. Red Rose ok?"

Jane lets out a sound that almost reminds me of a whimper, and I give him a warning glare, while prompting Carlson to continue on.

"Ignore him, please," I say in apology.

"Anyway," the man says wearily while plugging in a black GE kettle and locating a spare mug for Jane's tea, "Then I remembered that Amber alert that came through almost two weeks ago. I assumed it was a mistyping - for a Dorothea Castleton? I assumed Thea might be a nickname, you know? Except that the alert said that she was aged 7, but _32 lbs?_ I mean - that has to be wrong, right? What 7 year old weighs that little? I have a four year old daughter who weighs more than that."

Jane opens his eyes.

"Dorothea Castleton is a very sick little girl. She has bleeding ulcers. She also has displayed symptoms of anorexia."

_"Jane,_" I warn, the sound low in my throat.

He may be right. But his statement is also unsubstantiated. More than that, if he's wrong - which is unlikely, but hopefully possible in this case - I _don't_ want this child being treated as even more psychologically disturbed than she already is going to be treated.

I turn back to Agent Carlson, who now looks shocked.

"Is that even possible in a little kid?"

Jane snorts, rudely carries on.

_Oh, yes. _

_We will most definitively be having a conversation later about appropriate ways of talking and interacting with other people...  
_

"Did the woman say this child just small? Or did she look sick? Because Dorothea Castleton was scheduled for testing at Resnick's, but she was also physically sick," I say quickly, lest Jane interrupt the conversation with something goading or mocking.

"She said she was tiny. That's what she said. Toddler tiny, almost. But taller. She thought the kid was 5 or so, like I said."

"Our child would have looked quite gaunt. Not just normal little kid skinny. Her teeth were in poor condition, so she didn't smile much, and she has a tendency to cover her mouth when she is speaking, according to family friends. Almost like a teen might, who wears braces? Like that, but even more pronounced. Her arms and face would have looked - malnourished. Almost pulled tight, due to weight loss. The bones would be visible in her skull, around her eyes and temples," I add, trying to see if anything of my description matches what Ms. Peters may have said.

I search my pockets for a recent photo, and pull out one. Taken a month previously.

The little girl in the photo looks timid, rigid, and all too aware of her surroundings. Even in a photo, you can sense her anxiety. Wide eyes - made larger-seeming from weight loss - swallow up her petite face. The bones of her jaws, even in a photo a month old - made her seem incredibly ill.

_Of course - she is incredibly ill._

_And how much sicker is she going to be by the time we locate her?  
_

"_Christ_," Carlson utters under his breath, "this little kid looks like one of those war refugee kids from WW2, you know?"

I nod glumly.

"We will need to speak with Ms. Peters and show her the photo right away."

"Yeah, of course. And about that Agent Lisbon - we just weren't provided any photos, we were told that-"

I hold up a hand, and Agent Carlson pauses.

"We understand. No physical descriptions or photos was released to the public or to the radio stations, and limited photos have been in circulation even for authorities. Three of the four previous victims were killed a day after releases were made. In fact, if it wasn't for the last child, we might have been able to assume that he kills them in retaliation to the press releases. He's obviously listening to the radio very carefully - and the TV, also, possibly."

Carlson sighs deeply. "I - I've just put on a pot of coffee. Any takers?"

I nod in appreciation, while Jane continues to glower at his mug of Red Rose tea.

* * *

**_continued..._**

**_- reviews are awesome. And I have quite a few reviews to respond to, as well!_**

**_Thank you for all the support and interest in this story!  
_**


	24. Chapter 24

**Title - Little Stars - Part 24  
**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N:** This is up a little sooner than is typical for me. But not sooner than promised. ;) A bit of a tough chapter to write - but I felt it was needed as the impetus that will carry the story through to an ending I have already envisioned/ mapped out. I won't say I hope you guys "enjoy" this chapter, because the topic is brutal. All the same, reviews are always appreciated (I will try to respond to recent reviews from the previous chapter over the next day or two, additionally. Thank you again!).

Thea, as you might imagine, is hard for me to write for many reasons, not least of all because she's only 7 years old. In every sense that truly matters, she's also stunted. She's been deprived of a normal childhood, so she's scarred and disturbed.

I actually had to go over several parts of this chapter several times and just take out huge chunks because I thought the tone sounded either too young or too old to be her 'voice'. What I've left remaining - _I'm hoping_ - will sound like the age appropriate internal dialogue of a very damaged child who is struggling to survive and is barely hanging onto her sanity by a thread.

This chapter is also _EXTREMELY experimental. _Coming from me, that definitely means something_._ Hopefully it's not too hard to follow along. I apologize if it is...

Anyway...

Here we go._ *deep breath*_

* * *

**_"Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape."_ - William S. Burroughs**

* * *

**Thea's POV**

* * *

"Chicory, listen," I take a whisper-breath now cause I have lots to say and don't want to forget anything important.

"I will tell you how to be brave..."

* * *

**_ I am going to think this into your brain so you have to listen really good to me, okay?_**

**Are you listening?**

**Can you mind-hear me?**

* * *

_Here's what I do when I am real scared, Chicory._

_I tell my mind-me to sit back. Watch, **be quiet, be quiet Thea**, I say. Like Dorothy in Wizard of Oz. Watch, don't get scared. Cause it's not real._

**_none of it is real. only the angels are real. Chicory - you are real, course you are._**

**_ And Abariel is real._**

**_And those on the Moon are real.  
_**

**_But maybe nothing else is real._**

_**Maybe not even Thea is real.**  
_

_**Isn't. Isn't. Isn't real**, I say.  
_

_That's how you stay living with a pink heart and not have it go into a black heart which is the worst color heart out of all color hearts to have.  
_

* * *

_You can tell your mind to do this too, because it works very well. Trust me. You can try it too if you are ever super scared. I'll tell you exactly how right now if you want?_

_So this is it. It's very simple, but it works. Trust me._

_You say **"don't be scared, don't be scared, go away into your heart."** And you aren't so scared, see?_

_If it doesn't work proper at first, then you have to open yourself up like that little doll from Russia with all the other little dolls inside until you find the RIGHT You, the real one, which is always the one all the way in the center. That's how you know it's the real one. It's the one deepest inside.  
_

_Like with me, I take the real Thea out and hide her. When it is better, I can put her back inside the Regular Russian Doll Thea that everyone normally sees. That way if someone comes to steal the Real Thea deep down inside...well... when they open up all the dolls, the last one is already gone._

_Then I can go **ha ha ha. I got you. I took the Real One out and hid her and I won't let you touch her!** _

_Then the Shadow-monster can only touch the Fake You, see?_

_Like for me, there are a lot of Fake Thea's. Maybe 8 of them. Maybe even more._

_ And they are hard to break because they are made out of Not-Life stuff. Stuff like stone that can't feel any pain at all. Not the Angel-stones, cause they are Real and they are from the Moon. But the old stone from mountains that was not ever Really Real. Cause only Real things feel pain._

_That's what I made the fake Thea's out of. So nothing would hurt. Not even the Moon Stones._

_You want to always make sure you don't take the Pain and put it on someone else, even a rock, because that's not fair._

_If you take your Pain and put it on someone else, your heart can also go black because that's just giving the pain away to someone littler than you._

_That's the very worst thing to do ever._

* * *

_If you can't get the real You out in time, don't try to get out._

_Never try part way through. Not ever._

_If you try part way through it's always bad cause it hurts the very worst then and you get trapped in Pain. If you do not get out in time, then you have to do more stuff to make it Not Real all around you, because you are out of time. _

_Here's what you can do if that happens..._

_Press on your eyes until you see the green ring in the Blackness. You have to press on your eyes hard. _

_You keep pressing and then you make the good creatures come out of the Green Ring. Like you can choose whatever you want if you have a really good inner eye that paints things very well and sees lots of details inside your head. I have a very good head for seeing lots of details and things that I can draw inside my mind._

_You can choose a fairy or many fairies or you can choose elves. Or you can choose something that can do something very neat that the Real You can't do - like fly. You can fly like the flying Horse, the one called Pegasus._

_You can also choose creatures who can run very fast, like jackrabbits. Or the Mind-You can hop onto a bird and then it can go flying like that bird that cried tears and then healed Harry but also burst into flames like in Harry Potter, the first movie. The one called Fox.  
_

_Sometimes that won't work very well if your Body is hurting lots, so then what you do is you go into a very small pain bubble and you can shrink down very very teensy in size and hide in the pain bubble. You can still hear and sorta feel all the Bad stuff, but not as much._

_It's like being in a basement and hearing loud music upstairs. You can hear it, and you can feel it going rumble-rumble in your body, but not as much as if you stayed upstairs in your body and didn't go downstairs into the cellar part of your mind._

* * *

_The not so great thing about going down down down into the cellar part of your mind is when you try to come out again sometimes it doesn't work very good at all, and sometimes you get stuck half-way in the cellar and half way in the upstairs part of your Mind where you normally have to be to go to school or go to dance, say._

_It's wrong to get stuck half-way in the cellar or outside in the Deepest Part because then you don't feel or hear the stuff you are supposed to hear and feel in the normal People-World._

_I got hit with a ball in gym one day cause I was still in my mind-cellar from the night before when it hurt very badly. It was a Pain night and it was very Black and I got trapped because it was more Pain than normal._

_Then my teacher, Miss Hazelton, asked for me to See Her at Recess instead of going outside. She put a note on my math paper with the easy multiplying tables in very nice handwriting and with a star sticker, and the star sticker was gold and read: **Awesome Job! You're #1, Superstar!** cause I got 100% on my math multiplying tables. The note said:  
_

_"Please see me after class, Thea."_

_Miss Hazelton is nice but I was still stuck in the cellar part of my mind and couldn't get out because I still felt left over Pain from the night before._

_ It's like when you get shocked with electricity and you are all jumpy, you know? You just don't feel normal for awhile. It takes lots of time to go away sometimes when you get a bad bad shock._

_Sometimes I get very bad shocks and they take days to go away even a little bit._

_Some of the shocks haven't gone away at all, Chicory.  
_

* * *

_Miss Hazelton has a really soft voice and she made me sit down and she talked all sweet like my Mom does when I bring up the stomach blood and get scared cause it's so red and ugly. And then she whisper-talked, "What's wrong, sweetheart? What's going on, Thea? You can talk to me, you know."_

_That's what she said.  
_

_And so I started crying all very sudden like a Fat Baby and didn't mean to at all. I shook my head back and forth lots of times to get her to not touch my shoulder and she still did and then I turned around into the wall and still cried without meaning to, so I ran out into the hallway and found the older kids lockers and it became a Big Deal._

_Then the Principal called my Mom and Dad, and that's another reason why it's not good to show the tears on the surface of your face._

* * *

_Sometimes I know I am still sorta in the cellar part of my mind but don't know how to bring myself back upstairs to where I'm supposed to be._

_Like when I think I should cry because something is supposed to be sad, but nothing feels like Sadness, and everything feels like fizzzzz like on the radio when you can't get the song to come in right. _

_All fizzy. No sadness but also no happiness. Nothing at all. Like when your leg falls asleep and has pins and needles. _

_But that's how you feel everywhere inside._

* * *

_I will tell you something, Chicory._

_You can't tell anyone._

_When I was 6 almost 7, I saw this black car coming towards me on my street when I was walking halfway home from Spencer's and I didn't feel anything at all that night. Just that fizz in my whole body._

_I heard this little voice say in my head louder than anything: "go in front of the car, Thea. Go in front and lie down and let it go over top of you. Do it."_

_So I did it._

_I didn't even feel any pain when my bone popped out of my leg and all the blood came from my nose and top where the bone is next to my eyes and hugged my fingertips when I touched my skull._

_That's why you shouldn't go down into the cellar part of your mind for too long._

_Because it's very much like non-stop fizz down in the bottom part of your mind._

_And all the fizz sort of numbs out the fear and sometimes it tells you that you want to Die, not Live._

_But it's bad if you don't Die properly, because then you'll never get to go to the Moon._

_If you Die the wrong way, you just go into the ground and never get to see the Angels or Abariel or anything like that._

_Then you felt all the Pain for nothing._

* * *

_You know you are sorta still stuck in the cellar because the Real Buildings, like your school or the food store all look fake and plastic. Like a fake building at Disney World._

_That's when you know you are down too much in the cellar part of your mind and not up enough on the regular floor in your mind. Because all the buildings go all flat. Like they are made with cardboard, and you've cut the cardboard buildings out with your mind-scissors and put them out on the Real street. _

_I can't explain it very well, Chicory._

* * *

_You can cut out lots of things with your mind-scissors. You can also draw things over top the bad, scary things. You take your mind-pencil, and after you cut out all the black and the red stuff, you take your pencil in your mind and you make a SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE noise in your brain. And then you draw what you like. I can draw lots of different things like animals or flowers and if a part of me is hurting lots, I sometimes will paint lots of yellow and pink hearts where that part is really hurting and crying the most._

_Sometimes, if the Real Me wants to scream but can't then I make the mind-me kiss the Real-me and I tell myself that's my Real Daddy (the Daddy who I was made out of, not the one who says he's my Daddy) and I pretend the Real Daddy is giving me real hugs and kisses. But not bad kisses. _

_Good kisses only._

* * *

_Sometimes when I bleed, I take the mind-scissors and I snip snip snip the bad out too.  
_

_Then I take mind-pencils and I put a big happy thing over top where there is Badness or Blood._

_I sometimes will draw a picture of a cat, or a dolphin. Hearts are easiest cause they are like two messy C's back to back, with a tail in the center._

_Even if it's late and I'm crying without any sound at all, I can draw hearts in my Mind. _

_That's how easy hearts are to draw for me._

* * *

_Sometimes, if I wake up and there is blood on my sheets, I go snip snip snip and I take all the Badness and I cut it out and I put it in the Vent. I stick it in the vent with all the Bad stuff and the clothes that have blood on them. All the messy bad stuff goes into the Vent._

_Then I take the mind-pencil and I draw a whole bunch of locks and bars and keep everything Gross and Bad inside the Vent. Sometimes I put the Rock Angels all around and they guard the Bad things so they stay in the Vent and can't get out and hurt my Body again. Like the Angel with the Sword, in The Bible, who guarded the Garden with a fire-Sword to keep Adam and Eve out._

_You can keep Badness in a Vent and the Angels will guard the Badness or talk to it and make the Badness stop hurting you. You then open the Vent later and if you did everything right like a witch spell then the Pain will be gone. _

_And then you check your Mind and it's not in there either. _

_If any part remains, like a bad smell, you can cut it out too and then you can draw a nice smell over top like a Rose or a Tulip and you make a beautiful garden with plants in your mind and fill it with nice flowers and things that bloom and smell pretty._

_And that's why I like plants. They are so pretty and all they do is bring you Colors and that's the only reason flowers are ever born. _

_Flowers are just born to make you smile when you are very sad and want to cry or scream. _

* * *

I pat Chicory's leg and he goes all fussy like a baby when he's done listening to my secrets, and then he makes a mew-mew sound in the part between his throat and his mouth.

Then he peeks his head up and it bops the top of the blanket.

_Mew-Mew_, he says. In his eyes I can see that he's Heard Me and now knows all of my secrets.

I then, in my mind only, ask if he will help me. And he winks at me and I hear his voice - his Real Voice - and he says he will.

"What should I do, Chicory?," I ask him, and poke my fingers through the blanket to see if it is still night outside.

**It still is night.**

Sometimes I think it is night more than it is ever going to be day.

Chicory knows I am scared of the night, cause that's when the Shadow-monster comes to eat me.

I also tell Chicory that I am getting scared of Mr. Rudy because I am very very good with sorting out Real Smiles from Fake smiles.

And Mr. Rudy sometimes has the angry fake smile on his face. Like when I took Chicory out to go pee and the lady saw me and he got all mad at me and told me in a deep voice to go back inside the van. Mr. Rudy, I could see, had the smile that was like the big bad wolf smile then and I got scared.

It was like the smile my Daddy at home has when he's turning into the Shadow-monster.

Big bad wolf.

I don't like that smile.

It means Pain.


	25. Chapter 25

**Title - Little Stars - Part 25**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N:** A POV change. This time I'm doing something a little different. This time I'm writing from Jane's POV. The only time I've ever done that was very early on in my fanfic writing days, with my first _Mentalist_ fanfic (which I started writing _before_ I had even seen an entire episode, believe it or not! So understandably, I was flying in the dark.)

Feedback is always appreciated. :)

Especially in cases where I'm writing from a different perspective to the character I usually adopt for any particular fandom (in this case, that would be Lisbon. The reason I usually go with Lisbon is because I share enough personality traits in common with her character that I hope the 'tone' sounds more authentic. Jane is, overall, my favourite character on the show. But if I'm being honest, I am not that similar to him personality-wise).

Therefore Jane is tricky to write.

**WARNING:** for sensitive subject matter. Suicide attempt described in relative detail.

* * *

_"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."_ - Norman Cousins

* * *

**Jane's POV**

* * *

God, Lisbon's right.

I need to sleep.

My eyes feel like hot coals in my skull.

I swig back a taste of now-cold Red Rose tea - _which I have never really liked, even when Ange used to make it_ - and I listen to the feedback crinkle in over the phone from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Lisbon wants to run the plates anyway, even without photographic confirmation from our star witness or her son.

Carlson is _'mhaw_'ing his way through the phone conversation like a South Park character, so I smile, eyes closed.

Grace is setting up her CBI issue laptop in record speed.

Rigsby, and especially Cho, stand around and look like goons who will mess someone up if they don't help us get the information we need.

"Ok, we are WIFI connected now, boss," I hear the youngest agent explain, "just waiting for feedback on what to search."

Carlson disconnects from the call quickly.

"Ok, well the camper that Ms. Peters described and gave plates for belongs to a Rudolph Moretti. _M-o-r-e-t-t-i_. No priors. License places his DOB as Oct. 5th, 1968. California resident most of his life, largely nomadic now."

"Grace?," I call, "you checking-"

"Yes, I'm on it," she supplies rapidly. Carlson stops his exposition, while we listen to Van Pelt's rapid key strokes.

A moment later she speaks.

"I have a Rudy Moretti coming up several times on Google? This guy has worked for years with a group called _The Yellow Angels _here in Los Angeles. He started it himself, looks like. It's a Suicide Prevention program for teenagers. Junior high and high schoolers, mostly. Created about a decade ago. Another group too, _The Brave Angels_ - an anti-bullying program for younger kids - that one is a little newer."

_That's how he finds the children._

_That's how he locates them._

"When did he start _The Brave Angels_, Van Pelt?," Lisbon queries.

"Umm, let me check," and a pause now, but only slight, "It seems he created _The Brave Angels_ five years ago."

**_2006._**

**_When the first child was killed._**

"Mr. Moretti is listed here as the primary guest lecturer. Goes around California all year and this is what he does - he talks to kids and offers his services to schools for a stipend. Some people donate through Paypal, it seems. His business is listed as a C3 non-profit charity. Three years ago he stopped lecturing for _The Yellow Angels _entirely and started focusing full time on lecturing for_ The Brave Angels_. That's according to his website. There's photos on here and everything."

Agent Carlson looks unnerved. "This whackjob has his own _website_? With photos?"

I open my eyes in time to see Lisbon reward us with a firm look. If I was watching Tyra Banks right now (which I sometimes do in the breakroom at the CBI, especially if Lisbon's lingering about and is likely to catch me), well, Tyra would call Lisbon's look "fierce."

_You go girl!,_ Tyra might also say.

What makes it so rewarding is that her fierceness is in no way directed at me.

Not right now.

Right now she's glancing at Carlson.

"Agent Carlson," Lisbon starts, her pretty voice sounding strained.

I close my eyes, amused, "we can't assume _anything_ at this point. We can't assume that-"

"This guy owns this camper, Agent Lisbon. Fully registered. And according to your Agent Van Pelt, sounds like he has a good sea of children to wade through if he's looking for victims and all. Sounds almost like he has the _perfect job_ to get to talk to kids and have kids talk to him, tell 'em their problems and not be questioned or look too out of place."

Grace makes a low, noncommittal _'oh,'_ deep in her throat. Obviously not in relation to anything Carlson has just stated, as she's still reading.

"Oh no," Grace mutters again, touched by something. "Rudy Moretti had a daughter. Alyssa Moretti-Pierce. Died when she was 15, almost a decade ago."

"So, had she lived, she'd be what? 24, 25? Would have to have made Moretti a pretty young father. 17, 18?," Rigsby asks.

"Something like that," Cho answers, brief as ever. "Single father?"

Grace types something else into the search field.

_Clickity click click click._

"Alyssa poisoned herself. Same method as our victims. Her father found her."

I do sit up now, increasingly awake with every passing second.

Van Pelt's voice becomes even softer as she reads. It takes my full attention to not miss any details.

"The site reads, _"Rudy Moretti first got involved in suicide prevention programs for kids after his 15 year old daughter, Alyssa, committed suicide in early June, 2000. Alyssa - a victim of a sexual assault while at a rave - had stuggled with depression for a year. "The Yellow Angels" were created to honor Alyssa's memory and to address the issue of depression in youth and children. To mark the 5th year anniversary of Alyssa's death, Rudy created a program for younger kids called "The Brave Angels" to reach out to a new generation of at risk kids. "The Brave Angels" addresses the issues of bullying and other forms of abuse, both at school and at home, and lets kids know how to reach out for help if they are being hurt."_

"Sounds like our guy, to me," Carlson adds again, when Grace finally stops reading.

I nod my head in agreeance.

It does.

We have the stressor. We have the motive.

And now we know how he finds them.

* * *

For some reason I don't quite get, Lisbon and Team Inc. decide that we should eat dinner at a Pizza Hut tonight.

See - here's my problem with that.

Pizza Hut's are _riddled with kids._

_Makes for almost morbid dining, if you ask me._

* * *

A teenage boy who looks barely old enough to drive asks us what we'd like to order.

_Speaking of depression..._

"And for you, sir?," the kid asks.

Not rudely. _Not exactly._

I look for a name tag.

"Alright, yes Marc - thank you. I'm debating between the mini deep dish veggie lover's and the mini cheese crust cheese lovers pizza. Can you tell me which one is better?"

I hear Lisbon grumble, low and faint, like thunder that is rolling away behind a hillside. I also think I hear an _"oh for pete's sake,"_ which makes my smile all the more authentic.

Marc blinks, stares at his order pad.

"They are both deeper crusts. One has cheese inside the crust, too. So more...cheese. One has veggies on top. Less cheese."

This time I blink back. Try not to laugh.

_God I love kids._

_Teenagers are really the best._

"Well, _yes_, Marc - I've gathered that much, but from a personal taste-preference point of-"

"Damn it Jane, _just pick one_. Just pick a pizza and leave the kid alone!"

I bite my lip, suddenly antsy and filled with an anxious dread that I rarely encounter.

_Certainly out of the blue._

An almost queasy sense of dread.

The brief feeling of a shuttering, clawing panic attack.

I never get panic attacks any more. Hardly ever.

_The last full blown one I had was eight years ago._

I know my leg is jack-rabbiting under the table. I know I seem frenetic.

I know I seem out of control.

Because I feel _out of control._

"Alright then. I think I'll get the mini dessert **_pizza_** with the strawberry struedel filling and the cinnamon and chocolate syrup, please."

_Please laugh, guys. _

_Please just laugh and have something be bright. _

_Please just roll your eyes and laugh and have this night seem safe._

_Please laugh and tell me we're closing in on this man. _

_That we are going to find this little kid._

_That we are going to bring her back._

_That she's going to make it. _

I fold up my menu and politely hand it back to our melancholic server, then place my hands across my lap and smile broadly at the team.

No one smiles back.

* * *

When my 'pizza' arrives, I briefly catch Lisbon's gaze. She's biting her lip, but is restraining her speech.

I ask for a knife and fork. Because of the _"chocolate syrup and the whipped cream."_

Because it is_ "messy."_

Still no smile.

Not even from Cho.

Lisbon doesn't look the least bit relaxed, actually. She certainly doesn't look like she's going to laugh. Not even a little bit.

"You said to pick a pizza. So I picked a pizza," I argue pleasantly after a solid minute has passed. Not really defensive.

Lisbon shakes her head in frustration. Still mute.

But I also notice that when Emo-Marc comes back to ask how_ "everything's going here?"_ not even four minutes later, Lisbon suddenly orders an orange juice.

_Lisbon doesn't like orange juice. _

_Says it hurts her stomach._

And when the orange juice arrives, she slides it over to my plate and fixes me with a glower.

So I drink the orange juice, and will away the strange feeling of freshly encroaching panic.

_Away, away, away._

And when a little girl besides our table - _wearing a party hat that reads as "Birthday Girl!"_ -pops her balloon and lets out a shriek, I have to put my hands underneath the table and press my palms against my knees to stop them from shaking.

I have to listen very intently to Van Pelt, and Cho, and Rigsby as they speak.

I have to drown out the sound of my Charley speaking, from long ago at her birthday party:

_"Look Daddy, my tooth! Look! It's all wobbly! Soon I'll have a big person tooth there, right Daddy?"_

_Red balloon. Red balloon and Charley. Charley with the red balloon tied around her wrist, with black string. _

_And the server asked, "would our birthday girl like anything else tonight? We have an assortment of dessert pizzas in strawberry, apple and chocolate?"_

_So Charley selected a strawberry dessert pizza._

_I added the sprinkles and whipped cream and chocolate sauce._

_And Angela laughed, rolled her eyes, told our baby, _

_"You don't share any of that with Daddy, sweets. Not one bite, pumpkin!"_

_And to me my wife said:_

_"You better not get diabetes or something, Pat. I'll really hound you then, mister!" _

_And I laughed and kissed her and Charley went:_

_"Ewww! Daddy. Stop. Stop, Daddy! I want to eat! Stop KISSSSING."_

_Too loud._

_Always too loud, my daughter. _

_Ange, telling her to calm down._

_"Inside voice, babe. Eat your dessert, Charlotte."_

* * *

I manage to eat about a quarter of my dessert pizza before I start to feel sick and excuse myself from the table in a rush.

Finally, after walking through a labyrinthe maze that almost leads me straight into the kitchen, I locate a baby blue door with a cartoon kid that reads as the "Boy's Bathroom."

Because, of course, we are at a _god damned Pizza Hut where half the patrons are probably under the age of 10_.

Sighing, I make my way inside past the urinals, until I find the toilets. I bend over and do what I need to do.

What I have to do.

_I have to push away..._

_/Little body. Pink sweater, purple playsuit. Bows in her hair. White ribbons._

_Or were they yellow?_

_Her eyes wide and open like a never-ending sea._

_An ocean caught up in her eyes._

_Strawberries. Strawberries and cream. She smelled like_

_strawberries and cream_

_In the dark, a dead child looks a hell of a lot like a sleeping child./_

* * *

_/shake her_

_and scream at her _

_and plead with God_

**_/please. i'm sorry. imsorryfornotbelieving._**

**_pleasemakeher!alive. please make her come back._**

**_oh god i'll do anything you want. i'll do anythinganything_**

**_ANYTHING/_**

_I scream at her to _

_**WAKE UP BABY! PLEASE WAKE UP!** _

* * *

_her eyes were still open. _

_**That's Good Patrick**, I told myself._

**_She's watching. _**

**_She's cold, because she's in shock._**

**_Warm her up. Pick her up. _**

**_You have to rub her hands because her circulation is poor_**

**_You have to make the blood pump again._**

* * *

**_/and then an hour turned into _**

**_three_**

**_and then somehow_**

**_somehow_**

**_ I have blood _**

**_all over my arms _**

**_and across my throat._**

**_across my lips where I tried to breathe air_**

**_back into her lungs._**

**_I felt Charley's chest._**

**_rising_**

**_falling_**

**_rising_**

**_as I breathed._**

**_And then I picked her up_**

* * *

_I rock her. _

_Like she's a newborn._

_Rock a bye baby._

_don't you cry. daddy has you, baby._

_daddy won't ever let go._

_not ever ever ever._

_daddy has you, charley-bean._

_you're safe now._

* * *

**_I walk under the skylight in her room_**

**_past the tea set_**

**_and the fucking red balloon from her birthday _****_party_**

**_cross my legs_**

**_hold her in my lap_**

**_i think i scream_**

**_/i think i scream and do not stop/_**

* * *

_Later, much later..._

_Sophie tells me I was still screaming when the paramedics came._

_I do not remember that._

_I only remember bits and pieces of that night._

_And only in nightmares._

* * *

_For two months, I could not remember what happened._

_I went home after one night in the hospital._

_Police escort._

_Police lady asking me, "Is there anyone we can call, sir? Someone to stay with you?"_

_Eyes like maple._

_Warm and open._

_Genuine._

_"I'll be fine," I whispered, because I could not speak much louder than that._

_I had screamed too long and too hard._

_The police lady looked concerned._

_Gave me her card. _

_"You know, I don't usually do this. But if you need to talk to someone for any reason_

_please call me, okay, Patrick?"_

_Nod. _

_"Please feel free to call me anytime, alright?"_

_Piteous eyes._

_I nod again._

_Nod to get her to leave._

_Then I go upstairs._

* * *

**_I realize I'm cold._**

**_I'm cold and I have a horrible headache._**

**_I feel like something is trying to crawl out of my mind_**

**_out of my brain_**

**_I don't feel real._**

_The last time I felt this unreal was when I was little_

_and I had the bad fever_

_Dad came and got me._

_I was cold then, too._

_Blood inside my pajamas._

_"Patty, why are you bleeding? Who did this to you? Patrick!"_

**_My dad's voice._**

**_My dad is shaking me._**

_I push the memory away._

**_Go away. Go away and _**

**_NEVER COME BACK._**

* * *

_I realize I know what has to come next._

_Because I do not know how to live without them._

**_Because I can't live without them._**

* * *

_I run a bath._

_I add Ange's apple bubble bath. _

_Warm water. _

_I strip down to my socks._

_Debate leaving them on._

_Father's Day present._

_I take them off too._

_I don't want to get blood on my socks._

_Charley-Bean gave them to me._

_With a big card. _

_"I love you Daddy" written on the front in pink crayon._

**_No._**

_I don't want to get blood on these socks._

_These socks are precious._

* * *

_The mirrors are foggy with steam._

_I can't see my own reflection._

_Good._

_Good._

* * *

_In my hand, I hold a photo._

_I lower myself into the tub, and I hold onto the photo:_

**_It's Us. _**

**_Charley, Ange, me._**

**_Charley's stuffed hippo Gippy-Gee is closest to the camera._**

**_The four of us are having a picnic._**

**_Little cucumber sandwiches for Ange._**

**_Egg salad for me._**

**_Peanut butter and jelly for Charley._**

**_I'm drinking real tea. _**

**_Ange is sipping beer out of her plastic tea cup._**

**_One finger raised in the air, like a proper British monarch._**

**_In the photo I'm winking at her, trying not to laugh._**

**_Charley is grinning wide._**

**_Lips hyper-pink from eating popsicles all morning._**

**_Gippy-Gee sits stoic and proper._**

**_Father's Day tie pulled tight around his Hippo head._**

**_Silk socks dangling off his feet._**

**_"He looks like you, Daddy!"_**

**_Ange and I start laughing._**

**_The most well behaved member of the Jane family. _**

**_Little Gippy-Gee._**

**_Purple hippopotamus._**

* * *

**_Who turned red. _**

**_Because my daughter held on to him._**

**_Somehow._**

**_Somehow._**

**_Somehow she managed to hold onto Gippy-Gee._**

**_As she died._**

* * *

_I'm crying, and I kiss the photo twice._

_Once for Charley. Once for Ange._

_I hear Charlotte's voice whisper in my mind, _

_"Once for Gippy-Gee too, Daddy!"_

_So I laugh-cry, and kiss the photo a third time. _

_"Ok, Bean. Everyone got a kiss. Good?"_

_She doesn't say anything else._

* * *

**_I put the photo on the ledge of the tub._**

**_I debate if I should take off my boxers._**

**_I'm going to get blood on them._**

**_I know that._**

**_But does it matter?_**

**_I decide to keep them on._**

**_I decide I don't want anyone to see me naked._**

_/it was hard enough with Ange, sometimes._

_sometimes that was hard enough for me_

_and I loved Angela_

_and trusted her with my entire heart and even then_

_sometimes_

_i couldn't do anything with her_

_not anything like a husband is supposed to _

_be able to do_

_with his wife_

_sometimes i could only hold her_

_or only let her hold me_

_usually after a nightmare_

_which i could never remember well_

_little pieces_

_tiny little pieces_

_my hair sweaty_

_a scream in my throat_

_a dying scream_

_my heart wooshing and pounding_

_and angela would hold me_

_her voice like a brook_

_ssssssshhhhhhhhh_

_calming_

_in the morning I would pretend_

_everything was fine_

_i'm fine_

_i'm fine_

_we don't need to talk about this, Angela!_

_I'm fine!/_

**_I lower myself into the water. _**

**_I close my eyes._**

**_I don't feel as sad._**

**_But still I cry._**

**_I cry._**

**_I cry._**

**_I cry._**

**_I don't think I'm scared anymore._**

**_I am just crying because my body is scared._**

* * *

_When I stop crying I take another sip of vodka._

_I hate vodka._

_But it helps sometimes._

_It helps with the fear._

_We both know Charley was made one night_

_around Christmas_

_only because __I drank vodka._

* * *

_I wait._

_I wait._

_I drink some more vodka._

_I put more hot water into the tub._

_I feel calmer now._

_I look at the photo once more._

_Once more._

_"Say goodnight, Patrick," my mind says._

_Just in case they can hear._

_Just in case._

* * *

_Then I pick up a parcel knife._

_An exacto blade._

_A post office grade knife._

_It's new._

_I bought it this afternoon._

_I rotate the knobs twice until the metal comes out to play._

_Until the blade sticks its head out and waits for my command._

_I look down to see if I am ready._

_My chest is wet from the bathtub water._

_The air is still white with steam. _

_"I love you, my Angels," I whisper._

_Gippy-Gee sits on the toilet and watches._

_He's maroon now._

_The blood has dried._

_"You've been a good friend, Gippy. I salute you."_

_I raise my glass of vodka to him._

_A toast._

_"To friendship, Gip."_

_He smiles._

_I take the blade._

_Tap it along my wrist._

_Go higher._

_Find the nook in my arm._

_Tap again._

_Feels right._

_It's where I had to get my blood tests done._

_At 20._

_Before marriage._

_The spot looks good._

_Looks appropriate. _

_Everyone cuts their wrists._

_Makes it trite._

_This is better._

_This has meaning._

_I close my eyes._

_"For Ange..."_

_I cut. _

_I look at Gippy-Gee._

_He's still smiling._

_Still giving me encouragement. _

_So I cut again._

_Deeper._

_I make sure it's deeper._

_I feel extra heat rolling down onto my chest now._

_I realize I am insane. _

_I close my eyes._

_My left arm suddenly feels both heavy and light. _

_At the same time._

_It's a good sign._

_But it also means that I have to_

_act fast._

_I find my right forearm._

_I make the next cut for Charley._

_It is easier than the first cut._

_So much easier this time._

_This cut slides like butter through my arm. _

_Not as painful. _

_I drop the knife in the tub when I'm done._

_I hear Charley-Bean laugh. _

_She's running in the meadow._

_The grass is up to her knees._

_The butterflies flitter about her._

_She waves to me in joy._

_YoU cAmE bAcK DaddddY!_

_She's running on the beach._

_I run towards her._

_I've never run this fast before._

* * *

I blink, and let the memories fade.

The Pizza Hut restaurant is loud outside, but relatively quiet in the washroom.

Too quiet.

That's not always good for me.

* * *

Lisbon asked me once: _"What do you do with all the quiet?"_

I couldn't tell her.

I couldn't begin to tell her.

_Because it's not an easy thing to explain._

_It's not so much what I do with the quiet._

_It's what the quiet does to me._

_It makes me think of things I don't want to think about_

_finding them dead_

_my wife_

_my baby_

_or being little_

_very little_

_and crying for my mommy to come_

_my legs all sticky with something_

_and not seeing_

_not knowing_

_just feeling the pain_

**I bend over the toilet.**

* * *

Tonight the vomit comes out quickly and easily, and I fight back a wave of dizziness as I spit the last bit of whatever was in my stomach into the bowl. Then I grab some tissue and wipe any residual vomit off the sides of the bowl and the lid.

I flush the mess away, wipe my hands against my pant legs. At the sink I wash my hands three times, and try to ignore the fact that I look like a piece of looseleaf with sunken eyes and a mop of hair on top.

Looking around next, I stick my head under the tap and rinse the water through my teeth until the taste of bile is completely gone. I even pinch my cheeks. Just a bit. I'm not really vain.

I just don't want to get scolded.

I don't want Lisbon to think I'm worse.

_"You're a god damn fucking mess, Patrick Jane,"_ I hiss at my reflection.

Maybe Lisbon is right.

Maybe I do hate what I see.


	26. Chapter 26

**Title - Little Stars - Part 26**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **We are looking at about 3 chapters left now. We are definitely in the final inning. Also, I took some liberties with certain geographical zones/ lakes etc. **  
**

* * *

**Lisbon's POV  
**

* * *

By 6 am I'm up.

I groggily hit my alarm before it can start bleating its cry and turn to take in Grace. She's pulled in bunches of the motel blankets up under her chin, and her skin looks doll-like in the early morning darkness. She, too, has the bruised look about her eyes that I've been seeing on Jane for weeks now.

I guess it makes perfect sense.

_We are all running on very little sleep these days._

I go to the washroom, strip down to my underwear and change into a long sleeved jersey shirt and jeans. I'm running low on truly clean garments, and feel like wearing something less in need of pressing or attention. Today is going to be a "lock and load" day, to quote the movies of my childhood. Or, if not that - then minimally a run-around-ragged day.

_I can feel it._

I scour my teeth with some Aqua Fresh and then spit the exorbitant amount of foam into the sink, taking care to clean up quickly. Today I'm skipping makeup and anything extraneous. Some tinted moisturizer and a messy bun is going to have to be sufficient. I want to get back to the Precinct as soon as possible.

_We have credit card reports to wade through, and if we are lucky - this bastard Moretti will have used his debit visa in the last couple days._

_ That'll help narrow down possible places to look._

As if determined by the stars, my cell starts vibrating against my pant leg, which is clipped on at my hip and set to vibrate. I answer on the second set of 'rings.'

"Lisbon," I start, roused to full alertness when Carlson tells me of some _'new developments.'_ I listen attentively.

Hanging up, I feel a sense of impending doom.

* * *

"Grace, come on, get up," and I nudge my youngest agent gently. She opens her eyes not unlike a groggy lion cub.

"Mmmh?"

"Carlson and his team have run the credit reports - we have to get to the station. Moretti has cleared out his entire debit account. $4,028 and change."

"Shit," she breathes,"that can't be good."

No. It can't be.

It's not good.

_It's not good at all._

It implies Moretti is concerned about the police tracking him, or - more importantly - it suggests that he's concerned that we've already ascertained his identity. It implies that he wants to stay off the radar, and operate on a cash only basis for as long as possible.

Most importantly, it implies that he's stressed, hyper-aware of the possibility of the police closing in, and possibly riled up.

Overall, it's the worst emotional state for any abductor of a child to be in.

It's precisely the state of mind we _don't_ want him to be in.

After all, the last time Rudolph Moretti felt enclosed and got spooked, he killed his victim - a 6 year old girl by the name of Lauren Wallen - the next day.

* * *

Collectively, the team agrees to burritos.

Rigsby is the only one with anything resembling a healthy appetite this morning.

I get fries smothered in what looks like plastic cheese.

Cho splits a soft burrito with Van Pelt, each taking small, tentative bites.

Jane gets a Mr. Pibb and keeps taking deep, drawing gulps as if trying to rouse himself into full wakefulness.

Even without explaining the situation to him, I suspect he's figured out that something has changed in the case.

* * *

"What do we have, Agent Carlson?"

Carlson looks glum.

"Delia, here, is our tech girl. She came in to run scans this morning. And by morning, I mean 1:30 am."

The girl sitting in front of us is about Van Pelt's age, maybe a little older. But I can sense that like Grace, she's probably the baby of Carlson's team. Unlike Van Pelt, who sometimes seems exceptionally regal and well composed, Delia has a gritty roughness about her that is probably off putting to some. She is unapologetically punk, and probably is limited from excessive field work based solely on the number of piercings she has dotting her ears, nose, lip and brows. She waves a hand in welcome, almost knocking over an aluminum can in the process.

"Tidy space you've got here, Dell," Carlson admonishes, while the tech girl dismisses his concerns.

"Well, time is of the essence, right?," Delia questions, sharing print out reports of her findings, before taking a _schwep_ping sip of Monster cola. She passes a chunk of papers over to Jane, who seems to take the information with an almost startled expression.

_Carlson has obviously mentioned Jane to his colleagues._

"I thought to go back to May 2010, 2009 and so on. Track his purchase patterns. Most serial abductors have a splash of OCD in their chemical mixture anyway, and Moretti is probably the same, so I tracked his Visa debit account for three years. On two of those three years, he booked three weeks - _fully paid_ - slots at Acton KOA campground, just north of us. His other booking - the year he took Elliot Drummand - was at _Riding Horse_, but they've closed it down earlier this year. Part of some revitalization project, apparently. Something about a water supply and grounds water contamination issue?"

Carlson turns back to us, "Yeah, so we got four teams of officers to head out to Acton, and start a grounds sweep of the place. We figure, there's a good chance he's there, or has been there recently."

Jane taps the print out report against his leg. He's wound tightly like a spring.

"Send anyone out to _Riding Horse_?"

Carlson looks confused.

"Totally off limits, Mr. Jane. I'm talking chain link fences and no public access around the entire perimeter. Entire place is shut down. Completely."

Jane moves his hand in a dismissive fashion. It's a trait that I found hugely irritating when he first joined our team. Now, I can only imagine Jane's frustration whenever he has a flash of insight on a case, and has to wade through countless questions.

"Makes it all the more viable a possibility. This man is scared. He's nervous. He appeared angry and tense, according to Ms. Peters and her son, and he left in a rush - pealing out of that parking lot. He's cleaned out his bank account, and he has taken care to NOT use any form of traceable banking information since the sighting. If anything, _Riding Horse_ is a much more plausible place for him to go. He'll want to stay off the main highway lines, and lay low. My guess? He's stocked up on supplies - food and water and basic necessities - and has changed his appearance. Possibly also changed the appearance of Thea. Cut or dyed her hair, probably both."

I let out a rush of air.

"_Riding Horse_ is maybe a half hour drive, tops, once we get to highway 105."

Jane turns back to Carlson.

"We're going to need wire cutters. Even if he's been there, he would have re-locked the perimeter. If this is where he's gone, he'll leave nothing to chance."

Carlson goes off to look for supplies.

"Jane," I start softly, "he could be any number of places."

Jane shuts his eyes tightly.

"He's not in any number of places. He's in one place. He's_ there_, Lisbon."

"You can't KNOW that, you-"

His eyes radiate an uncharacteristic degree of passion. It's a look I've only come close to seeing during Red John cases.

"I know he's there. I know it, Lisbon! It makes perfect sense. It was the last place he vacationed with his daughter, the summer before her attack. There's a photo of him and Alyssa - at _Riding Horse_. At this point, he's motivated more by his own issues than his rationality. He'll still take precautions along the way, but this was his destination. Possibly all along."

* * *

Two iron wrought gates have been enslaved by chains. Jane fingers one edge of chain, bites his lips.

"There's track lines in the earth," he says softly. "Right up to the gates."

He crouches low on his hands and feet.

"And brush marks beyond the gate."

"Brush marks?," Carlson queries.

Jane exhales shakily.

"It means that Moretti is undoubtedly in there, and he's taking precautions. Probably brushed away the tire tracks from the inside with a brush, tried to mute the edges."

Turning to Carlson, I ask: "how often is the park patrolled?"

Carlson makes a floppy move with one meaty hand.

"Not too often. Hard to say. Patrol cars only come out once a week or so to check the perimeter for vandalism, vagrants, stuff like that. Revitalization and water purification isn't starting until, oh, about end of the summer. Three months or so."

Jane kicks at an indention of earth.

"Would this have been publicized? The start time for the revitalization?"

"Local paper mentioned it, pretty sure. Lots of people were concerned about the water quality due to the plant couple miles past the north edge ridge."

"An estimate of park space, for campers? He's not going to be able to go into the deepest parts, but what kind of mileage are we looking at?," Jane adds a moment later.

Carlson eyes Jane cautiously.

"Pretty big park. Not as big as many National Parks, but we're talking a solid 15 miles wide, easy. Centralized spots for showers, toilets near the camping spots. If our guy took a camper in, and is sticking to the vehicle, our search area will be much more focused, maybe 5 miles wide, or so? "

Jane helps Carlson with the cutters, and in one solid motion the links break apart, the lock tumbling free and falling to the ground.

I look to Jane, Cho, Rigsby, Van Pelt. I stare down at Sprocket - our bloodhound on loan from the 56th's Drug Recovery Unit.

_Thea could already be dead. _

_But if Moretti keeps to his schedule, she has three days left. _

"We can't take the car in. It'll be too noisy. And we should split up in teams to maximize efficiency. Cell phones on, set to vibrate. If Sprocket gets a lead, Jane will send our coordinates to you guys, and we'll all centralize. Unless we see Moretti hurting Thea, we do this quietly. We want to take this guy alive, if we can."

"_He's only a murderer of children_," Cho grouses. "Got to take him _alive._"

"Despite what he's done -," I stop, unable to give a pep talk about justice right now. I try a different tactic. "Thea's undoubtedly going to be right with him, or close by. This kid is already traumatized. So _no one_ is going to do anything rash," I stress. "_No one_," and I stare more pointedly at Jane.

_Everyone knows why Jane's partnered up with me._

_It wasn't his choice, that's for sure._

_In fact, his choice was to partner with Rigsby._

_Easy, manipulable Rigsby. _

Before we enter, Van Pelt pulls a bag of Thea's clothes from the car.

"Here, Sprocket," she commands, and the dog diligently approaches, taking a good whiff of the contents. When his tail starts to wag, and he jumps a few inches from the ground - and we know he's ready.

We enter the park as silently as possible.

* * *

At the first fork, we formally split off. Rigsby with Carlson, Cho with Van Pelt. Jane with me, and Sprocket.

"Which way do you want to go?," I ask Jane first.

_Even his guesses and intuition seem to hold a far greater than average chance of yielding a 'hit.'_

Jane turns and looks to the left, the right, and dead ahead.

"Right," he says after a moment. "It looks like a rockier path, with more foliage, not as tidy. Subconsciously, anyone wanting to evade detection would probably be drawn to anything with greater cover. I say we go right."

Cho nods, and heads straight with Van Pelt. Rigsby and Carlson head off left.

* * *

Sprocket, as promised, is exceptionally well behaved and quiet. Jane tells me this is understandable, and necessary. Cadaver dogs are trained to find corpses, and since they almost always are trying to locate victims who have expired, the degree of cautiousness and quiet they exhibit isn't necessary for a successful operation.

In drug raids, however, things gets trickier. SWAT, and the K9 teams themselves, can get shot at unless they move stealthily. In fact, given the increased risk to dogs on drug raid operations, their signals for a positive scent hit are often very different.

In Sprocket's case, we've been told that he will simply stop sniffing if he has a 'hit' on a scent, then turn and lightly tap my knee with his head, and then wag his tail while trying to continue moving in one straight direction.

* * *

We walk in a straight line for almost an hour. The difficulty now lies in the fact that every 5 minutes or so new turn off for campers is presented to us.

_I feel as if I am in a 'Choose Your Own Adventures!' book. _

_One from hell._

_Riding Horse_ truly is an exceptionally large park. I can only thank God that we're not doing this search in, as previously mentioned, a National Park. As it stands the asphalt roads for the main artery line make it very difficult to determine if we are on the right path. Therefore, Jane closely examines each turn off to the smaller, gravel pathways that lead to individual camp zones. He stops every few minutes, gets down on his hands and feet, and reads the terrain.

When he comes up from his studying, he looks frustrated.

"The dirt is so compressed here, it's hard to get a read. And Sprocket is unlikely to get a hit of anything from the road. That's assuming Moretti has even let Thea out of the vehicle."

"Many motor homes _are_ set up with basic toilet structures," I agree.

"We need to think like this man, Lisbon. Would he keep going in further?"

I pause, stare around, and try to get a feel for the park - as Jane is seemingly doing. With one hand, I remove the park's visitor map from my coat pocket.

"There's a play ground about another quarter mile in, and a shower zone, payphones, an old - no doubt closed up store for toiletries, candy, and an old laundromat, also most likely closed up. Lake Casitas intervenes about another quarter mile from beyond that point."

Jane stops walking.

"How far does the lake run to the campsites?"

"Doesn't say. Why?"

"Thea is scared of water. It's in her pediatricians notes."

"Part of the reason she couldn't take baths."

Jane kicks at a patch of gravel. "No, that has more to do with having a pedophile and rapist for a father."

I ignore the comment. The burning hatred of his tone.

"You think Moretti knows about Thea's phobia of deeper water?"

"I think it's a real possibility. If he did, it could be seen as one more way to control her movements. She's unlikely to go near the water, even if she could get out of the camper."

We continue to walk in the direction outlined by the _Riding Horse_ visitors map.

* * *

About fifteen minutes of continued walking, Sprocket abruptly stops in his tracks. His head swerves slightly from left to right as if he's trying to zone in on something neither of us can see.

I squint, turn to Jane.

"What's he looking at? Can you see anything out of the ordinary?"

Jane furrows a brow, also takes in the scene.

"I can't see anything."

We approach the direction that our guide is edging towards. The dogs limbs seem staccatoish now, almost nervous.

"Think he's smelling the outhouse?," Jane tries, pointing to a sign that informs us of a washroom facility 1/10 of a mile inwards from our current position.

"Maybe," I concede, not knowing enough about K9 dogs and what is typical for their reactions. As it stands, we don't even get 1/100th of a mile further along the pathway before Sprocket starts to squirm, a small whine escaping his mouth as he does so.

"What is it, boy?," I test carefully, dread swelling up in my gut.

The dog gingerly steps forward near a large wooden arrow sign, then takes a step back abruptly as if stung.

I scan the horizon for signs of disruption.

And then step back myself.

_Into Jane._

"**_Jesus Christ_**," I hiss before I can stop myself.

Before us is a pocket of leaves. A pile of leaves.

Coated in blood.

_A small mound is underneath the pile._

* * *

Jane is immobile, so I hand Sprocket off to him so that I can investigate. Sprocket sits to Jane's side radiating an equal nervousness to what I feel coursing through my veins.

_Please God, no. _

_Please don't be what I think this is..._

_Please don't be this child.  
_

_Anything but this child.  
_

My hands shakily pull back the first few leaves.

* * *

"Contact the others," I say after a few moments, while I try to control my need to vomit. "Tell them where we are."

I move aside, and when I do - _so Jane can see for himself what is going on_ - his face crumples.

Half hidden in the leaves is the body of a very small puppy.

The puppy's eyes are closed, and blood is matted across the top of his head, down his nose, and over his collar. The fur that was, at one time, golden is crimson.

I gently finger the collar, reading aloud with dismay.

"It says, 'Chicory'. Thea's puppy."

Jane swallows harshly.

"He's still a little warm, Jane. This is very recent. Less than an hour ago, I'd guess."

It's only then that I notice what looks like a minute raising and lowering of the animal's chest.

Tentatively, I cup one hand under the puppy's head, the other under his body, and bring the bloodied creature up to my ear, listening. Up close I can also see the source of the blood. The left side of the puppy's skull has been crushed and is now decompressed - most likely with something sharp and dense, such as a craggy rock.

"Jane. He's still alive," I say in horror.

Something far more violence-filled has happened here.

Even for our killer. _A killer._

"What the hell could have happened?"

Jane shakes his head stonily, his eyes unreadable.

"Nothing good."

The likelihood that Thea is still alive has just been massively reduced.

* * *

Working quickly, we decide to take Chicory along. No matter what has happened, or what may yet still happen, we can't just leaving this dog behind. If only in the immediate sense. We also cannot wait for the others, either, as it'll likely take them a decent amount of time to get to our location, even if running. Never mind the fact that the blood could possibly draw a wild animal further inwards into our space. Bear sightings are common to _Riding Horse_.

But it's more than that. This little girl, Thea Castleton, loves this dog. She named this puppy. This is her_ friend._

I remove my jacket, and slowly roll the puppy onto the garment, using the extra bulk to tie securely into sections that I can hold.

There's not much I can do for the animal himself, of course. There is no real easy way to control source of bleeding, since I can't apply a tourniquet to his head. I do, however, gently tear a strip of fabric from one edge of my jersey shirt and use that to wrap the dog's head.

Handing the puppy off to Jane, I flip open the holster to my glock, and remove the gun.

"You'll have to be our dog handler today, Jane," I say somberly. He gives me a wan smile.

Then we continue our descent into the bush.

* * *

For the second time in less than twenty minutes, Sprocket is straining against his leash.

This time his tail is wagging. _Frantically_.

"He can smell her," Jane whispers. More to himself than to me, I suspect.

I nod, and we traverse across what looks like a small jungle gym. Nothing has been played with recently, as the bars and the swings look rusted. Old leaves have piled up around the see-saw.

20 feet away from the small play structure is an old outhouse. Sprocket doesn't stop at the restrooms. Instead he moves past them, almost clawing against the earth with his feet.

"Careful, bud. Easy," Jane whispers, trying to control the 90 lb dog with one hand, while gently carrying the small, bleeding bundle of 9 week old Chicory in the other.

Sprocket now is straining to keep delving down one narrow gravel path.

So we follow along for about ten minutes. Until we come to a clearing. An exquisite clearing with shafts of light cutting through the trees and the edge of Lake Casitas working its way into our line of sight.

The water glistens. A multitude of diamonds sparkle in the sunlight.

The sight before us is so beautiful that I almost don't register the man sitting on the mossy crevice leading out to the water.

But I control my shock quietly, and train my glock on the back of the man's head before speaking.

Then I announce my presence.

* * *

Moretti turns around slowly, hands atop his head as instructed.

His tan pant legs are coated in blood. It's the first thing that I notice, actually. That his legs are absolutely _covered_ in blood. I morbidly hope that all the blood is from the poor dog now blanketed up in my jersey.

Jane - deliberately or not - drops the leash at that point, and Sprocket races towards Moretti as if on fire.

The animal seems almost hysterical.

"Sprocket!," Jane rasps, and Sprocket backs up slightly, dropping the intensity of his barking.

"Where's the little girl, Moretti?," I yell over the din of the aggravated animal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jane slowly place the bundled puppy to the side of the pathway, under a cluster of bushes.

My eyes then move back to our killer.

"Where's the child? Where is Thea Castleton?"

Moretti smiles pleasantly. There's no other word for it.

I'm reminded of Father Richter from my primary school days. Father Richter always looked so benevolent.

_So serene._

"Stop smirking you bastard! Where is Thea?"

Moretti slowly starts to drop his hands.

I fire a round above his hand, and he flinches. Sprocket starts barking again.

"Keep your hands on your head! I won't tell you again, you monster!"

I force myself to breathe. Moretti makes no move to follow my instruction.

"_Now_, Moretti! - before I get frustrated beyond all measure and shoot you in the knee. Accidentally, of course."

Moretti starts to laugh.

"You're not getting out of this alive unless you tell me where Thea is. Right now! I won't ask you again!"

Moretti stares at us both, his eyes flickering back and forth animatedly, seemingly highly amused by the situation.

"Do you really think I'd take one of my children away from all their pain," he says, still smiling that God damned smile, "only to let one of YOU take them back to their hell?"

"She's not your child, you deranged freak," I tighten my finger on the trigger.

_I've never been more tempted to fire a gun._

"No, not really," Moretti concedes, "She's _no_ one's child. Not any more. There's no more child in those damaged little bodies, you know. Everyone knows that they never are able to be children again. Never able to be_ people_ again."

"That better not mean what I think that means," I spit.

"I must admit, _Officer,_ even if I wanted to help you, I really couldn't. Not any longer. She could be any number of places by now."

"You better stop it with these fucking riddles, or else -"

"She's in the water, you see. Deep in the water. I was really surprised that a child so afraid of water would come here all by herself."

I hear a sound not unlike a child whose winded himself on the playground, and is now trying to breathe in one ragged breath after the other. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the breaths I hear are my own.

"At any rate, I think I saw her go - _that way_," and Moretti laughs again, pointing to a steaming current racing Northwards.

Suddenly, and before I can get past my own shock, Jane is on Moretti.

Not near him.

Not _running towards him._

He is ON Moretti.

And then the two of them are in the lake.


	27. Chapter 27

**Title - Little Stars - Part 27**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **Okay, so I miscalculated just a little bit. Not including this chapter we have 3 chapters left. :) Next one will be up by the end of the week. Ignore the triple re-posting please. I had to correct some annoying type-o's. XD (And I'm pretty tired these days).

* * *

**Jane's POV  
**

* * *

My heart gives a jolt in my chest, like a startled, spooked horse.

This stream is _freezing._

The thought of it angers me all the more as I hold Moretti's head under the water.

Distantly, as if in a dream, I can hear Sprocket barking, I can hear Lisbon screaming at me. Her words seem nonsensical and strange, as if she's pleading something with me in an alien tongue.

Where I am now, I can also feel the embankment of sand, the edge of the abyss, and the draw that the water has on my body. The water is almost begging with me to let go, _to let go_ and to stop treading. To let it take over.

I can feel it.

I can.

_I'm so tired._

_I'm so tired of everything._

He killed that little girl.

That precious little girl.

_You can never save anyone._

_You're a good for nothing worm.  
_

"JANE! Stop it, Jane!," Lisbon is shouting now. _"STOP IT!"_

But I can't _stop it_.

There was so much blood on Moretti's pants.

_/ i knew what it was_

_before Grace even pulled it out of the vent _

_that little child's clothing_

_panties coated in blood_

_her rapist father_

_her bastard rapist father  
_

_he spilled her blood  
_

_and the fear she must have felt_

_the shame_

_covering up her underwear_

_rock creatures drawn in crayon  
_

_to guard  
_

_to protect  
_

_a child's magical thinking  
_

_so scared that someone would find out_

_so scared that no one would find out_

And Moretti hurt that little dog. That tiny puppy.

He bashed that animal's head in with a rock. Left him covered up under those leaves.

_Probably in front of Thea herself._

_Probably the only thing that could have prompted her to run.  
_

_She was used to taking pain  
_

_Used to fear  
_

_Used to domination and control  
_

_being quiet  
_

_going away in her mind  
_

But Moretti left Chicory - _still alive_ - under a pile of leaves.

Left that puppy to suffocate, or else to be killed off by a wild beast.

Then he dragged Thea to the water.

Or else followed her here like some ghoulish boogey man.

The nightmare villain that always catches up to you in your dreams.

No matter how fast you try to run.

How hard you try to get away.

And she died here. This little girl - who was so terrified of water.

_She died here._

No. I can't stop this.

_If Lisbon wants me to stop this, she'll have to do it herself._

_.  
_

_.  
_

_.  
_

And she does.

* * *

I feel Lisbon's hands, strong and forceful, grab for my arms, grab for under my shoulders, securely wrap around my sides. The action prevents me from holding Moretti under the water any longer, and he bobs to the surface like an apple. He looks dazed. Unfortunately, he also still looks very much alive.

Lisbon then grasps for both my hands, and helps me get my footing on the edge of the soil and rocky terrain.

I slowly come back to the earth, and stagger over to the section of space where I've left Chicory. I have a jolting need to check and see if Chicory is still breathing, so I pull back the tied fabric of Lisbon's coat and place my ear next to the small dog's mouth.

_heeechhhhh heeeechhhhh heeeechhhh_

The animal is wheezing, and his breathing is highly strained. As he expunges air, the blood over his face bubbles and crackles and spurts like a tap trying to come to life after being shut off for too long. He's most likely breathed the blood down into his lungs which is causing his breathing to become even more strained. At this point, he risks aspirating.

Numbness is rapidly descending, and I let it take me away. I pull the little animal out from his swaddled confines and hold him next to my chest, rocking slowly.

I recall how the pediatric nurses told me that rocking babies with depressed immune systems or other problems can help sustain life. I spent hours at the NICU unit after Charlie was born - just rocking her for hours a day. Rocking her and singing to her, while Angela recuperated from a difficult pregnancy and an almost life-terminating labor. Then, when Angela was thrust into a bout of major Postpartum depression, I stayed at home full time, rocking baby Charlotte (who wore a little cap for warmth for over a month) and alternating that with holding onto my wife as she lost her mind and spent hours crying in her room. I'd rock her too. Babies, children, adults, animals. It doesn't matter. If they are very sick or very scared or very lost, the motion seems to soothe them all.

In that time of being Charlotte's full time replacement 'mommy', I learned a lot of nursery songs. I certainly didn't know any before I became a father. I certainly couldn't recall any from my own childhood. I have no singular memory of being rocked, or held, or sung to. Nor being kissed, or hugged, or read to - or anything else that I considered essential for raising a decent, healthy child.

So when I became a father, I was exceptionally full of hugs, full of stories, full of songs. It wasn't just for Charlotte. It was for me too. It was for what I needed, and what I still craved all those years later.

_What I still crave_

_What I never stopped craving_

_But abruptly stopped receiving_

_when Charlotte and Ange died_

I rock Chicory while Sprocket tentatively comes over to where I sit on a pile of moss, shivering.

I let everything else faze out. I let the fact that I failed - _again_ - faze out.

I rock and I hum, and then before I know it, my throat is closing up and I can't sing or hum.

I pull the animal close to my face, and cry into his fur.

* * *

I feel hot, and cold, and very strange and very lost. It's not a great feeling, but it's not a horrible feeling.

It's a confused feeling.

The light streaming through the leaves seems radioactive, intense and all too bright. The sounds in my head are so loud and the sounds of the world are not loud at all.

My ears are ringing.

Suddenly a light is being flashed in my eyes. It's not coming from the sun, or the shafts of light falling through the trees painting leaf shadows on my face.

It's coming from a person, and an object, and it's rapid.

And it makes me want to sick up.

"Jane!," I can hear, as if still trapped between wakefulness and something closer to death. "Jane,_ answer_ me, dammit!"

Cho.

Cho's voice.

He continues to flash his pen light across my pupils, and I wince, looking away.

"I'm okay," I whisper.

"Debatable," he states. "Come on."

I move Chicory to my lap, study the matted, wet foliage beneath my feet.

"I want to stay here. Until they find her. I'm not leaving until they get her out of the water."

"No, you're coming with us. You're getting cleaned up. You're sleeping. Lisbon's orders."

"I'm STAYING here Cho! Until they find her."

Cho doesn't argue. He crouches down low until his eyes meet my eyes.

_they look soft, his eyes_

_they look gentle_

_it doesn't make sense_

_but Cho's eyes look soft and gentle_

_like a Buddha's_

_kind and sad _

**_it means she's really dead, Patrick_**

_it means he's waiting for you to fall quickly and deeply_

**_and shatter_**

**_into a million, billion pieces  
_**

"What's that going to accomplish, huh? What's that possibly going to do for you? Staying here?"

I swallow the ache down. Deep down. Just like all the other emotions I usually swallow down.

"I promised _myself_ I'd find her. I promised my_ daughter_ I'd find her."

He doesn't speak. Cho. He doesn't speak.

Instead he takes my hand.

It is strange, and new, and not at all expected.

Cho's never..._taken my hand before._

"Water recovery is going to find her, Patrick. They are bringing out nets, and divers. We can't do anything more here."

I close my eyes and try not to let out a sob.

"She was afraid of the water, Cho. She was phobic of it. _So scared_."

"I know, Jane. I know."

"She lived maybe every day in fear. To come here on her own...she must have been so _terrified_ of him. She must have known. Probably pieced it together."

"I know, Jane."

At Cho's nudging, I release Chicory, and Cho takes the small puppy as carefully as Cho ever takes anything. Which in this case is actually very gentle. The movement is awkward, strained, as if he's holding a Robin's egg, or something that could shatter at any moment.

_which is actually the case_

He passes the animal off to Van Pelt a moment later, as if reading my mind.

It's a much more appropriate choice.

* * *

Lisbon comes and helps me to the car because I'm dizzy.

The car is already here. And Moretti is gone. Carlson, or another Agent, must have taken him away already.

I don't know when that happened.

* * *

I shower at the motel, totally numb, while Cho waits outside the door.

I know, because I can see the shadow of feet, watching. Observing. _Being held accountable for me_, at Lisbon's orders I'm sure.

The soap that glides over my chest - _rinsing off dirt and animal blood_ - feels as if applied from hands that are not my own.

I rest my head against the cool tile of the shower wall, and try to quell the panic that is starting to surge to the front of my mind as my fingers touch my chest, my arms - scrubbing at the filth.

_Your hands. _

_Your hands. _

_These are your hands._

_No one else is here.  
_

But the damage is done, and I find it almost impossible to carry on. I let the soap drop away to the tub floor and make special pains not to touch my skin again, which feels both deadened and hypersensitive at the same time now. _  
_

I take a few deep breaths to help calm down, and at first it works.

At first.

Then - without warning - the panic increases triple fold and I lunge forward, grasping the faucets with all my strength.

I turn the faucets until the water quickly starts to heat up. _Hotter, and hotter and hotter_, and I let it course over my back. After a few seconds, the water is a shade under what most people would call boiling, but I don't let myself move away from the spray. Only when the pain reaches a crescendo, do I make any attempt to turn off the taps.

The panic, of course, is now ebbing away. Which is what always happens when I burn myself.

**_I remember being a little boy._**

_Getting the wicker chair from behind the kitchenette table._

_Pushing it across the laminate flooring.  
_

_Climbing up to reach the stove-top. _

_Turning the dial until the small red light flickered on, and adjusting the setting to 5._

_To my age. _

_5.  
_

_Big kid.  
_

_No more little baby.  
_

_And the element would glow hot, like the core of a fire._

_I would wait. _

_I would put my palms on the element._

_I would sometimes burn myself on the stove._

_My dad would shake me._

_Shake me, yell. _

_Grab me by my middle and pull me away.  
_

_Drag me to the washroom.  
_

_Hold my hands under frigid water._

_Curse. _

_"What the hell is wrong with you, Patrick?"  
_

_More swearing.  
_

_"God damn it! You're going to stop this! You're going to stop doing this!"  
_

_He punched the wall once.  
_

_Angry.  
_

_So angry.  
_

_He'd force himself to calm down.  
_

_I would shut my eyes.  
_

_Tried not to breathe very loudly.  
_

_"Why are you doing this son?"  
_

_I'd shrug my shoulders.  
_

_"I don't know, daddy."  
_

_He'd sigh, resigned.  
_

_Scared, frustrated but always, finally  
_

_resigned  
_

_He'd look so disappointed.  
_

_Then I'd be in my room for the rest of the evening.  
_

_Locked in my room.  
_

_I'd curl up in my comforter. _

_Vanilla fabric softener. _

_I'd breathe it in. _

_And if I was being a big kid, I'd fall asleep._

_But if I was being a baby, I'd cry._

I turn off the water, and try to gasp through the pain as I towel off.

Without making much noise, which is the goal here.

Cho's voice, again: "You okay in there, Jane?"

**_They think you're losing your mind. _**

**_They've assigned you baby-sitters now, Patrick._ **

"I'm fine," I grumble just audibly, enough to get Cho off my case.

* * *

When I come out of the rest room a few minutes later I'm wearing my last pair of semi-clean clothing.

I immediately scrounge around for a garbage bag.

Cho is sitting on his bed, socks on, shoes off, watching Discovery Planet.

"Do we have any garbage bags?," I ask tentatively, holding up my soiled clothes.

Cho blinks, shakes his head.

"Just what's in the washroom," he seems to want to say more, and I have a pretty good suspicion as to what _that_ would be.

"I know they can be cleaned. I just don't want them any more," I state resolutely at his look of concern.

"Ok then."

I walk back to the washroom, and force my clothes into the small waste bin put out for travelers. Realizing that I don't want a house keeper or maid to tie up the bag - only to find soiled, bloodied clothes inside - I do this myself, tying the bag taught and putting on my shoes.

"Stay here, Jane. Don't go wandering off," Cho commands, and I force some lingering, strange shame away. "Lisbon'll have my head if you wander off again."

"I'm just chucking this into the trash bin."

Cho nods in acceptance.

"Fine. But come right back."

* * *

I get back from the dumpster, and I remove my shoes.

I go to my cot.

I close my eyes.

I try to pretend that I didn't help kill a little girl.

Because I didn't find her in time.

And I promised them I'd find her.

That I couldn't save _them_, but I'd save her.

_I'm so sorry Charlotte._

_I know I promised you I'd save her._

_That I would find her._

_To make it up to you._

_To show you I never have forgotten._

_I'm sorry, my angel.  
_

_I know that  
_

**_I promised._**

* * *

I feel the nudging on my back.

It hurts, from where I burned myself in the shower.

"Jane?," and a different voice this time.

Rigsby.

I roll over. Try to open my eyes. They are crusty.

I wonder if I cried in my sleep.

It's possible.

It's also possible that at this point, I don't even care.

"Did you find her?," I ask with a gummy mouth, half dried out.

I realize why almost immediately: my nose is clogged. Snot and tears.

Rigsby shakes his head. His eyes are downcast.

"No, they haven't found her yet. They brought over two other hounds too - Gizmo and Benny. Searching a wider perimeter."

I nod dozily.

"Won't help if she's in the water."

Rigsby concedes the point.

"No, probably not. Lisbon is going to be interviewing Morreti pretty soon. Did you want to listen in?"

_Do I want to listen in, only to hear about how this little girl was killed in greater detail?_

**No, I don't.**

I shake my head forcefully, and push aside an impulse to stick my face entire into my pillow not unlike a toddler.

"That's okay too, man. She just wanted to keep you in the loop."

I don't say anything else. I just study the pillow.

He finally gets up, calls Cho over.

I make out the barest haze of whispered speech.

Then, louder: "Rigsby and I are going to go get everyone something to eat. We willl be back in about 40 minutes, okay Jane?"

I nod at the pillow again.

I know I seem petulant.

I know I probably look like a child.

But it's essential for now.

My throat hurts. It hurts so damn much to breathe, never mind to talk.

And the shower helped to numb me. Enough.

But _just_ enough.

And only if they're gone.

_Only if I can try to forget about what's happened._

"Okay," I finally agree.

They leave.

I rest uneasily on the cot, until I can hear the sound of the lock clicking, and the echoed steps padding away. Watching the LCD red digital clock on top of the set box, I wait until 5 minutes has elapsed before I grab my own shoes, my wallet, my coat.

* * *

Walking quickly, I grab my supplies, putting down the items and paying with cash.

The checkout girl looks a little alarmed.

I guess my eyes are still rimmed red from crying, or from trying not to cry.

From _everything._

"You okay, sir?," she asks in hesitation, scanning my bottles gently and placing them in double-bagged brown paper.

"My daughter's puppy is dying. He might not make it through the night. A wild animal attacked him."

I let out a heavy exhalation at my own lie, at the sting of lying about my own child. About how I'm using her now just to navigate myself out of awkward situations.

The feeling of wretchedness, or guilt, blooms afresh in my heart.

"Aww, I'm so sorry," the girl says compassionately. "I lost my German Shepherd, Bella, last year. Old age. But it really kills, so I'm sorry about your daughter's puppy. I hope he pulls through, poor little guy. You never know, right?"

I mutter a sotto _'thank you,'_ and then take my parcel, walking double time back to the motel.

When I get inside, I deposit two bottles into my duffel bag, and the third I take with me into the bathroom.

Cracking open the lid, I let the caustic, biting agent work its way down my throat.

After about 10 minutes my arms start to feel heavy, but the clinging sense of tears _that are trying to come out -_ that's gone away, now. The sense of wanting to break something - that's gone away too. I recap the bottle of Vodka and hide it under the counter, away from the extra towels and pre-packaged toilet paper rolls, knowing where it will be if I need it later on tonight.

Before I do, I find my travel mug and fill the thing up with Vodka, then stash it near my bed.

Within a few minutes, the latent exhaustion - pushed aside and quelled by anxiety, anger, hope, adrenalin - starts to kick in full force and I let my eyelids slowly lower. The alcohol is doing its job: it's keeping the pain just outside, where it can't hurt me as much.

I drink a couple more sips, then let sleep take me away.

To some place that, hopefully...

_won't hurt at all._


	28. Chapter 28

**Title - Little Stars - Part 28**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **So I finally had a few extra hours last night to write. This chapter is brought to you courtesy of _"The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"_ soundtrack, by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. ;) (I love to write with music).

Oh yes, for those of you who may have read my other stories, you'll possibly realize that certain parts of this chapter are directly lifted and/or depict what happened in one of my earliest fics,_ "Under the Veil." __  
_

* * *

**Lisbon's POV  
**

* * *

Carlson drives Moretti to the precinct, which is probably for the best.

I don't know if I would be able to drive so reasonably well with that man in my car.

Grace sits besides me in the Van. Rigsby, Cho and Jane take positions in the back.

I adjust the rear view mirror and take in the expressions of the others. I've never seen my agents look so staggeringly _depressed_ before.

All save for Jane.

_Jane doesn't look depressed._

Jane unblinkingly scans the highway, no palpable emotion on his face whatsoever.

_None, whatsoever._

Somehow that fact scares me considerably more.

* * *

When we get to the motel, Cho departs with Jane. The two leave the vehicle without dispute; Jane, so lightly shutting his door that Rigsby is forced to re-slam it a second time a few moments later.

I subtlety wave Cho over before he can also depart into the motel room. If Jane notices my gesture, he gives no evidence of this and continues to walk away, before retrieving his key chain from his suit pocket and letting himself into the mutually shared suite.

"Boss?," Cho asks wearily once Jane has finally shut the door.

"You're on, uhh," I swallow, "you're on Jane duty. If you can, try to get him to consider actually sleeping. He's been pushing himself beyond all reasonable limits for several weeks now and he's ready to drop. He's sick and he just-"

_I have no idea where I want to go with this._

_I have no idea what I want to *say*_

_All I know is that I have to focus on someone living  
_

_and hurting  
_

_not someone who was so bitterly hurt  
_

_but is now dead  
_

**_someone I can't hold  
_**

**_can't comfort  
_**

_**can't do anything *for***  
_

_anymore  
_

_/my mind feels coated in yellow sheaf-paper  
_

_mind-wallpaper_

_selected by little me  
_

_child-me  
_

_the mind-wallpaper is tacky  
_

_and unfurling  
_

_ peeling away  
_

_and  
_

**the images underneath are awful**_  
_

**...  
**

**...  
**

**...  
**

**_a bloody car wreck  
_**

**_my baby brother, beaten  
_**

**_blood across his teeth  
_**

**_my best friend, lined with thick corded scars  
_**

**_from where he took a knife and cut  
_**

_**cut**  
_

_**and cut some more  
**_

_a little girl  
_

_floating out in a rushing tide of freezing water  
_

_blue lips  
_

_blue fingertips  
_

_somewhere  
_

_alone in that water_

_she would have cried_

_as she ran away_

_she would have frantically beat her hands against the water_

_the force of the pull too strong  
_

_her small head would have gone under  
_

_but she wouldn't have wanted to die_

_despite what had happened to her  
_

_despite her horror_

_she wanted to live_

_I know she must have wanted_

_to live/  
_

_I push the thoughts away.  
_

_I cannot think like this  
_

_not now  
_

_I have to be strong for them  
_

_him  
_

_most of all  
_

_**for Jane**  
_

I can't afford to lose it now.

* * *

"Boss?," Cho tests warily.

I clear my throat, and push the images in my head away completely. I need to compartmentalize right now. I need to focus. I need to act like a God damn senior agent of the CBI.

**So I make-**

**_ the blood_**

**_the weeping_**

**_the little girl with the blue lips and the cold hands _**

**_flitter away_**

"He looks like he's been losing weight, boss," Cho adds a moment later, in understanding.

"I'm pretty sure he _has_ been dropping weight, Cho. It's understandable, I guess. Just - don't let him out of your sight, please. Just do me that favor."

_The others don't know._

_Don't know that Jane was in a locked ward_

_ for slitting his wrists _

_8 years ago._

_They don't know that the impulse_

_that he has_

_to hurt himself_

_has already been established  
_

_long ago  
_

_and now is in his blood._

_Ready to be resumed.  
_

Cho studies me intensely.

"You're worried he'd hurt himself? Seriously? You think he's going to do something?," he whispers, a knowing look of awareness passing over his face not unlike a storm cloud.

I pause, hesitant to answer the question in detail.

It would feel like a betrayal. A betrayal of a man who has already lost everything.

_No, not everything._

_Almost everything._

_But he has us._

_His friends. _

_We care about him._

_And me..._

**_He has me._**

_I care about him._

**God, I care about you so much, Jane.**

**If only you could know how much._  
_**

"No, I don't think anything of the sort. I just want to play it safe. I know he'll need his space, especially now. He bottles so much up, and it's not healthy, and he won't likely really - grieve - with us there. But, I - _he's..."_

"-in a lot of pain," Cho finishes. "He should never have been on this case to begin with. And you want me to watch for signs."

Not a question.

A statement. _An understanding._

I release a pent up breath.

"No, he shouldn't have been. On this case, I mean. Or any case like it. It was my decision however, and I'll take responsibility for the outcome as much as I can. But you're right: he's been through too much. What he's been through would break almost anyone, no matter how tough. We will all have to keep an eye on him for the next while. Maybe more than the next while."

Cho turns back towards the motel door, stares at the shut **_103._**

"I'll keep an eye on him, and if something seems off, I'll let you know, boss. I promise," he asserts, before walking away.

* * *

When we get to the station, I excuse myself from the others and briskly retreat to the women's room.

Only when the stall is closed do I let myself cry.

_Just a little bit._

_Just enough to feel the briefest release._

_Enough to lance the pressure in my chest.  
_

I cry soundlessly, and fight back a staggering wave of nausea and ulcer pain, then rinse my face with cool water.

* * *

Rigsby waves at me briefly as I enter and I turn to him with a question. If he can tell that I've been crying, he certainly doesn't let on. It's a form of respect that I greatly appreciate - his ability to save face in the most dismal of circumstances.

"Did Moretti explain why he changed methods? He's never been so cruel with the children before," I question.

He hesitates for a brief moment.

"What is it?," I repeat, the shock of the day now advancing into a potent and effective potion against the earlier tears that had threatened to consume me.

"Moretti says he lost his temper because Thea offered herself to him. You know -_ sexually_ - begging to keep her dog. Tried -," and Rigsby lets out a harsh exhalation. It sounds like a swear in the emptiness of the room, "was trying to open Moretti's pants. He says she was pleading with him to keep Chicory, said that she was sorry for not following the rules. Would _"do whatever he wanted" - _and well, you know. Made it pretty clear that she'd do just about _anything_ to keep her puppy. Then Moretti went apeshit, apparently."

_Rudolph Moretti was trying to save this child _

_from a life of sexual abuse_

_and Thea willingly offers herself? _

_That's the way he would have seen it._

"He wouldn't have seen a desperate child, a traumatized or scared little girl. He wouldn't have understand that _she hated doing that_...that she didn't realize he'd turn such an offer away. He wouldn't have realized that she didn't see a choice, an alternative."

Rigsby nods slowly.

"Moretti says he just saw red then. Tried to make it out like _his_ response was totally normal. So he grabbed her, fixed her a milkshake, made her drink it. Knew there was no saving her. Knew she was "lost beyond redemption," or some such garbage - that's what he said. Apparently she was crying loudly by that point and wouldn't drink it, so he pinched her nose and he forced it down her throat."

"He poisoned her. Tried to. With ethylene glycol."

Rigsby nods.

"Did he say how much she drank? Because if she drank it, he would have had no reason to drown her. It just - wouldn't fit. It would be pure cruelty for the sake of it, and he's never shown any inclination that he'd subject the children to such a torturous end. It wouldn't fit with his overall goals, his delusions of saving them from pain. He'd only have added to her pain, this way."

**_The words are now meaningless_**

/as this is how I compartmentalize horror/

_Meaningless, alien words_

_that don't depict_

_a horrible evil end_

_**a death**  
_

_for this child_

**_these are just alien words_**

_just breath and random sound_

_nothing more_

**_nothing more_**

"Well, apparently she wouldn't drink it without a fight, and then she started spitting it out onto the floor of the motor home deliberately - so Moretti grabbed Chicory, took him outside, and not having a gun or anything else on him - attempted to kill the puppy with the closest thing he could find to a weapon. Thea followed him outside, screaming. Moretti says he "couldn't think," just attacked the dog, and she ran off."

"He's leaving something out. He didn't _just attack the dog._ What else happened?"

A sigh, hesitant.

"After Thea...," Rigsby seems extremely uncomfortable now, "you know - offered herself to him - if you trust Moretti-"

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"He's probably not lying about that. Something atypical set him off. To see this child try to engage him sexually, as if _he was her sick father _- that was probably a pretty huge trigger for a man who sees himself as some sort of liberator. It explains the violence. The rage."

"Well, regardless, after that, he slapped Thea. Hard. She started sobbing, and then Chicory started barking. When she wouldn't stop crying, Moretti slapped her again, and Chicory apparently bit Moretti deeply on the ankle at that point, drawing blood."

Despite the heavy grief in my chest, I find the smallest smile welling up.

"_Good boy_," I whisper. Rigsby gives a doleful smile himself.

"Yeah. He was. _Is,_ I mean. He tried to protect her."

_They both would have been scared._

_Terrified._

_Two little babes, alone in the woods._

_With a mad man._

_And they each tried to protect the other._

_Right until the end.  
_

If for no other reason than that, I have to agree with Jane. That no matter what was wrong or disordered with Thea - reactive detachment disorder or not - Thea was capable of feeling love and extending it to another individual.

Another being.

_Even at the risk of incurring personal violence_

_she showed how strong she could bond with another  
_

_and how far she would go to defend and protect  
_

_one that she cared for  
_

Rigsby agrees. "Yeah, I saw where the medic cleaned the wound, so I know that Moretti's not lying about that part, at any rate. It IS a pretty deep bite. You wouldn't think a puppy with milk teeth would be able to bite down that hard. Right to the bone. But Chicory did. That dog must have been _really set off_. Thea must have been frantic, or something."

"He loved Thea," I mutter, and watch as Rigsby's eyes cloud over with a weightiness that is rare for the man.

"It's why she was able to run, at any rate," he adds.

_Moretti was limping, that's why Thea could run fast enough away._

_She was able to run to the water..._

_Because he was wounded._

_Chicory might not have saved Thea's life._

**_But he tried to._**

It was more than anyone else had knowingly done for the child.

* * *

Grace sits alongside me in the dinner. Rigsby divvies up the rest of his french fries and shares them equally between us.

_You know everything has gone to hell if Wayne Rigsby has lost his formidable appetite_

"I'm not hungry, Wayne," Grace says hollowly.

I'm - likewise - completely lacking in appetite.

"At any rate, we will likely only be here for a few more days," I say. "Thea's Uncle is coming up to LA to prepare a memorial for her, so," I trail off, uncomfortable and numb.

_Lost._

"We should stay for that," Grace mutters. "It's only_ right._"

There's a shrillness to her voice that I have to eradicate.

As her boss.

_As her friend._

"We _will_," I agree, readily. Solidly. "We'll stay for the memorial."

CBI funding or not, we will not just slink back to Sacramento.

Rigsby makes a choking sound, high and unexpected, then abruptly gets up.

I make no attempt to stop his departure.

"I'm going to head over to the motel and see if Cho and Jane want anything to eat," he says in a voice foggy with tears.

I nod dimly.

* * *

By the time I drive Grace back to the motel, the sun has already set. I hand her the keys, and she departs without further speech.

I make a detour to where the men are camped out, and knock lightly.

Rigsby opens the door almost immediately.

He's changed into a baggy pair of sweatpants, a white sleep shirt and socks. His hair looks freshly washed, and he tidily exits the room, shutting the door behind himself, effectively closing off the motel room.

"Rigs?"

Rigsby lets out a shudder.

"Jane is asleep. Cho's getting a shower, but Jane is knocked out cold."

"Knocked out?," I query, more than a little concerned.

_Jane never is 'knocked out' when it comes to sleeping._

_He's always been a hyper-vigilant sleeper._

_The type that awakens with little to no noise._

**_The type that awakens if you flick on a hallway light._**

His psych report details that is a typical response for a man with complex PTSD.

Rigsby almost groans at the question, then responds in a near-whisper.

"You've got to promise you're not going to-"

"_What is it,_ Wayne?"

"I - I think he's been _drinking_."

"Drinking," I say dully. "How the hell could he be drinking? Cho wasn't supposed _to let him out of his sight_."

Rigsby scratches his cheek guiltily.

"Well, we did. Just for a short period of time. Half hour, tops. It's - _boss_ - you should have seen him earlier. He looked like he needed to cry, and he was trying so hard not to show any emotion whatsoever."

_Yeah, that sounds like Jane._

"Well, you know - we, _Cho and I_, just went for a really quick walk, picked up some juice and Advil for Jane's head, and thought he could do with a few minutes just to decompress, you know? In silence, I mean."

I do know.

I understand.

"Okay, Rigs. I get it. But get me, now. For the next few days, fair or not, stifling or not, someone will _always_ be with him."

Rigsby looks uncomfortable.

"Boss, we can't_ always_ be with him..."

"You check in with him. I don't care if he's in the shower. You keep him engaged, you talk to him. I don't care if he's trying to play it off as if he's okay. He's not okay, Rigsby."

The tall man looks spooked.

"Boss," he starts, uneasily. "_Lisbon._ What you're talking about, you're talking about something serious. And not for no reason. Why are you saying this?"

I take a deep breath. Stand strong.

"I'm talking precautions. Nothing more. Given everything he's gone through, it only makes sense to be cautious."

Rigsby's eyes scan my face for tells or clues of deception.

He finally realizes that I have no intention of saying anything more, and nods in acceptance.

* * *

Grace is already in bed by the time I get back to our suite. And she's either sleeping, or she's feigning sleep - but at any rate, it's hard to tell. Her body has shifted towards the wall, effectively breaking off all communication.

I wish her a sotto _'good night,'_ then make my way to the bathroom to get ready for bed myself.

* * *

As I shower, the images come unbidden to my mind.

_Jane pinning Moretti's arms against his side._

_The two tumbling into the water._

_Jane's hands, clenching around Moretti's throat._

_Squeezing with an insistent anger_

_a burnt out pain_

_not hateful_

_not truly hateful_

_pained  
_

_pained beyond all measure_

_'How does it feel?,' Jane had screamed._

**_'How does it feel to know that I'm going to kill you?'_**

_And I knew then  
_

_right then_

_that if I didn't step in  
_

_that he would_**_  
_**

_that Jane would  
_

**_he would kill  
_**

* * *

I turn off the shower head, and let myself feel the coldness of the air.

Only when my body is coated in a ripe tide of goosebumps do I make an attempt to grab a towel and dry off.

Studying my reflection in the motel bathroom mirror, I realize I don't look discernibly different.

But I feel different.

_I feel so old._

_So hollow._

_A tree carved out. Pared down._

_Not warm at all, inside._

_Not strong at all._

* * *

There is a rasping noise in my heart.

A pounding against my inner walls.

A gong.

The words of Jane's poem, the Plath poem.

He had left it on his couch, went to get tea. About two months previously.

I had scanned the words briefly - not at all concerned, not at all on edge.

Poetry. Nothing more than poetry.

And Jane was, and always has been - a reader. A studier. A learner, and autodidact.

The poem did not scare me.

Not at first.

* * *

**_I can taste the tin of the sky - the real tin thing._**  
**_Winter dawn is the color of metal,_**  
**_The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves._**

* * *

And now, now - a gong is banging against my heart.

Three loud knocks._  
_

**_All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations -_**  
**_An assembly-line of cut throats_**

**_Poison of stilled lawns_**

**_the little clapboard _**

**_gravestones_**

* * *

Someone is calling my name.

Frantically.

_My name._

I wake up, startled.

Grace, I can see, is standing over top me.

"Boss!," she rasps, jetting to the door.

And then she unclasps the chain lock, opens the motel room door.

The banging,

the gongs

**stop.**

Cho's face swims into view. Cho, and then Rigsby - both wearing short sleeved tops, pajama pant bottoms. Both barefoot.

Cho - his face contorted as if he's bitten into a lemon.

Rigsby speaks first:

"Jane's screaming, boss! You gotta come quick," he pleads, his voice frantic. "You gotta come_ now!_ We can't get him to stop!"

I quickly sit up in bed, wipe at my eyes, and scramble about for my shoes which I can't seem to find.

**_Dammit - where are my shoes!_**

After a few seconds, I give up searching and jog to the door, grabbing my keys.

_the sound_

_that horrible noise_

_the screams_

**_they are echoing out into the parking lot..._**

Rigsby looks alarmed, and I call out to Grace.

Inform her not to follow.

Ask for her to stay behind.

_Whatever is going on  
_

_Jane is likely to already be on edge_

_and when he realizes what's occurred  
_

_he's likely to be mortified  
_

* * *

Cho waits by the door, immobile.

"I want you guys to go back to my room. Stay with Van Pelt. I'll fix this."

"Boss," Rigsby says quickly, licking his lips. "Jane's not...he's not_ himself_ right now."

I shut my eyes tightly for a moment.

"He's not going to want an audience, Rigs. He's struggling, but that's_ al_l."

Cho passes a look to Rigsby. The look passes back and forth. Volleying looks.

"Boss," Rigsby tries a little more earnestly, a few moments later.

_And that's when I get it.  
_

_Fully.  
_

_They suspect that Jane could be a threat.  
_

**_A threat to me._**

"He's not going to hurt me, you guys. This is _JANE we are talking about!_ What do you think could possibly happen?"

They both look unconvinced.

_The screams have died away into something more - manageable._

_Softer, but no less resounding wounded._

"I'm not going to stand around here and argue with either of you. Not right now. Move out of the way."

Cho finally relents, and walks over to retrieve his jacket, removing both his cell phone and his handcuffs from his jacket. He tosses both over to me, and grimly states: "You call, or text. Within 5 minutes. And again in another 10 after that. You let us know everything is okay, or we'll be back in here. I don't care if it makes Jane uncomfortable. He's out of control right now."

I nod in agreement.

Then the two depart.

* * *

My first impulse is to flick on the light, to see.

Because Jane's in the dark.

**_Complete and utter blackness._**

I suddenly realize that I'll have to proceed carefully, as glass litters the bathroom floor.

I can smell the stinging combination of alcohol and blood, and can make out Jane's briefest outline due to the residual light of the hallway.

"Jane?," I whisper, my voice contorted by anxiety.

He just continues to cry.

He just continues to cry while my eyes adjust to the dark.

* * *

I can see that he's cupping a broken bottle of -_ rum - whiskey?_ - something alcoholic. His clothing looks saturated in the alcohol, and one leg is projected stiffly outwards, feet bare and cut deeply. Deeply and red.

"Damnit Jane, you got glass in your foot!"

I go back to the hallway, and quickly root around, finally locating Cho's own shoes and lacing them up. Quickly locating the emergency Red Cross kit, and grabbing that too.

I return quickly, and realize Jane hasn't moved since my departure.

**_Good. _**

**_He's not completely nonsensical._**

"Okay, Jane. Don't move. You've injured yourself, and there's glass everywhere," I say as calmly as possible.

_Now is not the time to lose my head._

Itemizing reality also doesn't seem so absurd considering the man has shuffled about enough as it is.

Even his palms are bleeding.

I retrieve the cell phone, and text a simple line of notation to Cho:

**_J's aware. Awake. Talking to me. I'm okay._**

I hit send.

Cho responds within a few seconds:

**_Alright. Write again in 10 m._**

* * *

"It doesn't matter," Jane wheezes after a few moments, as I locate the largest chunks of bottle glass, and deposit them into the trash-bin underneath the sink.

Piece by piece I pick up the broken objects, my hands wrapped around several pads of toilet paper.

"What doesn't matter?," I question gently, as I slowly clean a pocket of space. If he continues to stay still, I can clean up the bulk of the bathroom floor and actually make my way over to him without incurring any physical injuries myself. That's goal #1 for this evening.

"This-," he says deadly, letting his hands stroll through the air, briefly dismissing the mess of the bathroom. The damage. The _blood._

"This doesn't hurt me," he says numbly. "I can't even feel it at all."_  
_

I feel a clean and distinct moment of anger at his complete lack of self preservation. His complete inability to show any self-care, or any compassion whatsoever towards his own self.

"Don't you dare talk like that. As if you don't matter."

He brings his hands to his lap, and presses against his light blue silk pajamas.

"I don't," he mutters at his hands, stroking one wounded finger. "I - I don't feel like I _do_."

"Jane-"

When he moves his hands away, a section of his pajama fabric is now red rose, and I can see the bottle he's been grasping for dear life.

It is rum. And it's not broken.

_So I can only conclude that Jane must have several other bottles of alcohol _

_hidden throughout this suite._

"Cause I'm just a worm, Lisbon. I - that's all that_ I AM_ and-"

Despite any residual glass that may still be lingering about, I immediately pull Jane's body to my own. He flinches, his muscles instantly going rigid, and it takes extreme control on my part to continue my actions as if I have not felt his utter revulsion at being touched.

In fact, I can feel his shame. His shame, radiating off him in waves. And as if reading my mind, Jane's eyes tear away from my own, and he leans over to quickly shut the bathroom door shut completely with his uninjured hand.

"I don't want them to see," he whispers in embarrassment.

_He doesn't want them?-_

**_Oh._**

_Cho and Rigsby._

"I sent them back to my room. It's just," I freeze for a moment, "it's just you and me."

Silence, and then -

Jane's hands fumbling about in relative darkness for my own.

This time he pulls me to him instead of the other way around.

This time, he's the one _instigating_ the hug.

In the quickness of his action, the rapid onset of his need, I find myself awkwardly trying to grasp at him with an equal hold. The tub edge curves around into my upper back, while Jane's own hands wrap around and find a home against my lower spine.

I can feel the damp heat of his breaths against my neck.

"What's going on with you. Huh?," and I stroke his back, as he just - clenches at me.

He's quiet for a few seconds, and then: "There was_ so much_-," he tells me brokenly. "_So much of it._"

I extricate one hand, and bring it up towards his head, feeling his skin, the heat, the wetness of his tears, and then I stroke his skull.

Even his hair is matted with sweat.

"So much _what_?," I clarify softly, when he makes no motion as if he will continue talking at all.

"There was so much, _ungh_," he gags through his mouth, and the next breath is hitched, "there was so much blood. She was holding her doll. He was supposed to be purple, Gippy. But he was red. Red John must have woken her up. _There's no other way._ She was holding him so tightly, and he wasn't purple, he was red. Her bed, her mattress - there was pools of it under her body. Like spilled juice. So much of her blood. The cuts were black. Her throat was black, the cuts were so deep. I-I," and he's crying against my hold now.

I suddenly realize that this is the first time that Jane has willingly described what happened to him on the night of his family's murder.

What he experienced.

_This is the first time he's talked about it at all._

"He cut them so much. There was rivers of blood, and I can't - sometimes I can't get it out of my head. It's always right there, Lisbon. Right under the surface. Oil stains, on the street, and I think of...that mattress, her bed. The blood. Then I see her face, her eyes. Or, or - tomato soup, or even an old radiator. So many things, and I just, _sometimes_- sometimes I think I'm losing my mind. Sometimes I'm scared that I'm really sick."

_As much as I don't want to hear these details, I cannot stop him from sharing this with me._

_Because this is stuff that he needs to get out._

_Stuff that's choking him._

_Choking the life out of him._

"I put my hands against her throat, like this," and Jane pulls back slightly, his body acting out the memory, his fingertips coming to touch my own throat. "I held tightly. I tried to keep her blood inside. You're supposed to keep the blood inside until the ambulance arrives."

When I swallow, Jane immediately releases his hold.

I try not to let out a worming sob, climbing up my throat.

"I didn't stop holding on. I never let go."

"I know, Patrick. I know you never let go. You did good. You did everything _right_. Everything you could to save them."

"She died anyway, but maybe she'd have lived. Maybe I didn't do it right. _Didn't hold on tight enough_."

"Jane, sweetheart - they would have already been dead. There's no way you could have saved them that night. He never gave you that chance."

And I know I should be prepared for it, but it takes me by surprise all the same when Jane bursts into tears.

A stream of words, intermingled in his sobbing.

Words I cannot discern.

I vaguely wonder if that matters at all.

If that could possibly change anything at this point.

**_Probably not._**

* * *

I stroke his back, and fight down an ancient and lingering apprehension as Jane continues to physically hold me flush against his body.

Normally, I wouldn't be remotely concerned of anything untoward occurring while in Jane's presence.

_But tonight is not a normal night._

_Jane has been drinking. _

_And is coming down from a night terror._

Tonight Jane is so close to me that I can feel his warm breath against my neck.

He is almost panting, his breaths fast and rushed. And even if his need now - for connection - lacks eroticism, Jane is a man. A man whose hurt, and still mildly inebriated.

Never mind the fact that I've seen this before, in men. When hurt, when overwhelmed - and certainly when drunk. I have seen how their pain sometimes makes a simple touch, a hand-hold, a hug - seem attractive in that way that I hadn't wanted to suggest. I had first hand experience of how many just wanted to forget and shut down pain through sex.

But I also know where I stand. I know that despite how badly he is hurting, that tonight isn't going to turn to sex. I won't let it. I won't betray my best friend by letting him think that's all I'll offer him when he's in such staggering pain.

* * *

The need, of course, dies down into something less jet-stream-forceful soon, and his arms come out to wrap around himself.

A self-administered hug.

He becomes nervous then - not meeting my eyes, his own fluttering eyelids trying to bat away tears without my observance.

_As if it could be done._

_As if I can not see him for who he truly is  
_

"You don't have to pretend to be fine, Jane," I tell him firmly, my voice stronger and more composed than even I can believe.

Because I know the energy it takes to fake being okay when something so pressing is eating your heart right out of your chest. It takes a lot of energy.

No, he can try play the fool and the mischievous elf role to perfection, still. I didn't doubt that, nor doubt that he would try.

What had changed with his words isn't something massive in_ his _heart, but in _mine._

_This night, more than anything else  
_

_**has changed me**  
_

* * *

We speak for awhile longer. About many things.

Jane tells me about a sister I never knew he had.

He tells me how his mother gave him to his father.

_And never returned for him._

He tells me about being little with a horrible fever. A fever that almost killed him.

And he tells me about being so small.

About being terrified.

He tells me about being hurt.

Badly hurt.

He skirts around the words that solidify my suspicions.

But he talks to me as much as possible.

I know that.

**_I understand that much._**

* * *

_'I used to pretend I wasn't real, Lisbon._

_ I used to pretend pain wasn't real. _

_I'd close my eyes and pretend that all the feelings were something I could ignore. _

_Something I could deny.'_

* * *

_'I knew what to do - to make everything easier._

_ I could leave myself. _

_Go outside of myself and come back when everything was okay again. _

_I would focus on something outside of myself_

_let myself merge with it_

_and then I'd start to feel unreal. _

_Like I wasn't really in myself at all. _

_I would tell myself that the only reality that really mattered _

_was the one I'd admit had happened. _

_That everything else was a lie.'_

* * *

I pause in my actions, and assure him in quiet, muted tones that I won't push him on it.

**On any of it.**

* * *

Truthfully, I'm surprised that's he's mentioned what he has tonight. The knowledge that I am most probably correct about his past, however, sickens me beyond all measure as I continue to cleanse Jane's foot. I gently blot at his mangled foot with the motel wash cloth, and rinse out the blood in the sink and try most of all to pretend as if I am somehow _calm_ inside too, somehow _okay_ with what he's just said.

Even as I feel the bile lurch into my mouth.

_Because I know what we're dealing with here._

_We both know what this is.  
_

_And there's no going back  
_

_**No more pretending.**  
_

* * *

"I haven't any polysporn," I say regrettably after a few moments when I have managed to bring my voice under basic control, "so I want to recheck this in the morning."

Jane nods, fatigue readily clamoring up within him.

"Okay," he agrees without fuss, not meeting my eyes.

His cheeks are stained pink in embarrassment, and I know that I won't be hearing any more about his childhood. I know that he's probably spoken impulsively tonight, likely due to his slight intoxication.

"No argument?," I test with a fair share of apprehension. I don't want Jane shutting down on me now.

_I don't want Jane blocking me out._

* * *

"No protest? Hmmm?," and I nudge him with my shoulder.

Try to get him to relax, just a bit.

He bites his lip, and when he speaks his words sound less garbled, more lucid.

"I can't believe I just told you all of that," Jane murmurs. "Oh god," he whispers to himself._ "Oh god, what did I do?"  
_

"It's okay, Jane, it's-"

He brings his head into his hands.

"It's not okay! You weren't supposed to know. _I didn't want you to know!_"

"I wasn't supposed to know -_ what?_ That you've been hurt in perhaps the worst way a child can be hurt? The sickest way?"

He continues to stare at the tiles, no longer pattered with blood.

"Yeah," he agrees, after almost a minute. "I didn't want you to know that. It's - perverse."

I check over his other foot, and his shins, for any smaller cuts.

"Why do you think you told me what you did?," I inquire smoothly.

He holds up his hands, gives them to me for examination.

One finger is jaggedly torn, and I use tweezers to extract a portion of glass, then wipe away the remaining blood with the cloth, before also bandaging the additional injuries.

"I didn't want to feel like," and he swallows noisily, "I didn't want to feel like I was lying to you any longer. About me. _About who I am_."

I try not to stare at Jane in shock.

I have no idea what to say right now.

"Jane?," and I tilt his face until he's looking approximately in my direction.

When he is, I continue. "Patrick, listen to me. _Hear me._ If you were abused, it says nothing about who _you_ are-"

"It does though, Lisbon! _It changed who I was._ Who I have become. I might not have been _like this_ otherwise!"

I give him his space, let his breathing fall back down into something less erratic.

"You might not have been like _what,_ Jane?"

"I - I don't _know_. I just," he gulps, "I always feel like there's this block. This block around me, around my heart. I can't open up, I can't just be with someone. I'm always hiding. And I don't know how to _stop_. To stop hiding, and acting and pretending - and not feel terrified."

He wrings his hands.

_His mask is gone._

_The mask he always wears _

_is now completely cast aside._

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter will be up in ~ 1 week.


	29. Chapter 29

**Title - Little Stars - Part 29**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **I really have to dedicate this chapter to** MyBeautifulEnding. **

Additionally, I realize some people may be disappointed with the direction that the story goes from here, but this outcome has been planned from the start.

* * *

**Lisbon's POV  
**

* * *

I'm not usually the one to instigate hugs. Not as a kid, and certainly not as an adult.

Jane bristles at first. Just for a few seconds. Then he seems to marginally relax enough to reciprocate the hold.

I can feel his heart pounding through the thin cloth of his alcohol soaked pajamas.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm always causing you so much stress. So many problems."

His voice still sounds gritty. A hold-over from his screaming bout.

_No doubt about it: he's going to sound raspy for awhile._

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is nothing that you have to apologize for, Jane." I pull away gradually when he shifts about. "Got it?"

He nods dully at his lap.

Just when I think he's not going to say anything else, he speaks.

"Can you just try to_ forget_ what I told you tonight? Can we not make a big deal out of it?"

He's actually _begging_.

He sounds a shade under what I would call panicked.

And he's begging.

It's an awful, awful sound.

_It's the sound an abused child would make _

_while trying to push away an abuser. _

_The voice high pitched._

_Almost shrill._

My body feels a little prickly at the very idea.

A little foreign and off-put.

"There are certain things that I'm unlikely to just_ forget_, Jane. I think you must know that this has to be one of those things."

He closes his eyes, shifts about awkwardly in his space.

"But I'm also not going to force you to talk about anything. You can talk to me about this if you need to, but I'll never push you on this. You know that, right?"

He starts to speak, and at first his words come out in a tangled rush. Almost a stutter.

He stops, composes himself.

I can see his chest rising and falling even more rapidly than in the previous few minutes.

"I don't know how I feel about you knowing this stuff. Any of this stuff," and he's turning over his wounded hand now, running one finger along the gauze. "I don't think I want you to know, Lisbon. I don't think I want anyone to know. I didn't even... I _denied_ it when she asked. When Angela asked, I always denied what was wrong. _Always."_

I don't know how to feel about this revelation.

I don't know what it means.

If he's trying to say something _more._

_Jane certainly trusted his wife._

_He certainly loved her with an intensity few husbands ever demonstrate.  
_

As if reading my mind, his eyes close, crease in pain.

_He feels guilty._

"I wasn't trying to _lie_ to her, Lisbon. I couldn't remember. Not everything."

I let him back up a few more inches.

I let him put some space between us, if only for his sense of not being watched, or analyzed. I only have to imagine how I'd feel if the situation were reversed to know how I should proceed.

"But you remember more now, don't you?," and I swallow down the lump in my throat that's been there all day. That has been there since we found Moretti.

"I remember _enough_. Not a lot. Little bits, only," and Jane stops talking for a few moments, probably to breathe more deeply. "It's more than I want to remember."

Even in the darkness, I can see a line of pink well up under the cloth bandages.

The glass has cut him deeply. It's probably going to take several dressings to see a complete staunching to the blood flow.

"But I did lie to her, Lisbon. _I told her that everything was fine_!"

"You weren't trying to lie to your wife, Jane. You were trying to protect yourself from thinking about something horrible. You were trying to protect yourself, and that's all. What you did was completely normal, and completely understandable."

His gaze has fallen back to his legs, and I suddenly realize that he's been avoiding my eyes all evening.

I entwine my hand around his uninjured limb.

"Leave it alone, Jane. Don't play with the gauze. You don't want it getting infected."

Remarkably, he listens to the request and stops playing with the bandages, leaving his cut hand alone.

"Don't you think you'd feel a bit better if you got cleaned up? Do you have a spare set of clothes for sleeping in that I can grab for you?"

Jane's current pajamas are saturated in what smells like Vodka, and he scratches against the blood stain on his pant leg before responding.

"Not really. I think I'm completely out of clean clothes at this point."

I smile ruefully. "We all are, I think. But almost anything has to be better than what you are wearing right now. I'll see what I can find for you, alright?"

I leave Jane for a few moments, then locate his bags and go through the first bag - looking for anything soft and appropriate for sleep. I finally manage to find the grey sleep pants and top that he'd used at my place during his fever.

_What's he doing with these, anyway?_

When I return with the items, he looks confused.

"Trying to steal my ex-boyfriend's clothes, huh?," I say with a smile.

"I can't even recall packing those," he states dully, frowning.

I try to put his mind at ease.

_Now is not the time to dwell on something so insignificant._

"Lucky for you, you did," and I toss the items down lightly on his lap, along with a fresh pair of boxers and socks. "Come on - get changed."

I shut the bathroom door behind myself and let him take a few moments to get tidied up.

* * *

I briefly consider heading back to check on the others.

I should at least take the cot over. Two beds are not going to be split easily amongst three agents. Not two male and one female.

Jane's exit from the washroom rouses me from my thoughts.

He looks a bit better: his hair has been wet down, and he looks fairly clean and relatively composed. The ruddiness of his features, from his earlier crying bout, is now gone. His face has been freshly washed and the only remaining tells of his earlier night terror are the slight rosy ring encircling his eyes and his somewhat subdued attitude.

I indicate to the bed that he should take, then pull the duvet over top him once he's gotten under the covers. He makes some soft, slightly impish comment about how I don't need to tuck him in. It totally lacks a jesting nature, however, and I resist an impulse to kiss his cheek. I do stroke his head a few times - a little distracted by my own thoughts - and he closes his eyes. Suddenly, as if waking from a dream myself, I realize the intimacy of the action and slowly pull away.

_What are you doing, Teresa?_

_You can't afford to do anything that can be misread._

_Not ever. _

_But certainly not now._

_Not when he's this vulnerable._

"I'm going to check on the others," I state primly, still baffled by my own behavior, "I'll be right back."

Jane doesn't say anything.

It doesn't take a mind reader to know he's overwhelmed right now.

* * *

I knock abruptly, and in less than five seconds the door is opened up by Van Pelt.

She looks even paler in the moonlight than would be typical; her auburn hair pulled up into a tidy bun, her lips drawn. She's covered up, somewhat - as she's changed out of her previous pink pajama top into a much more concealing green hoody.

"How's he doing?," Grace asks in concern as she ushers me inside. She bites her lip as she awaits my response.

I give a terse smile.

"He's going to be okay. He _had_ been drinking," and I give a nod of acknowledgement to Rigsby. "But he's doing a little better now. He's quite a bit calmer, although I think part of that is pure exhaustion. He's completely sleep deprived and he'll need some time off from the job entirely after this, if you guys want my honest opinion."

Rigsby sits slumped by one of the beds, remote control in hand, and now lowers the volume of the television as I continue to speak.

"He's also a little...embarrassed, I think. Which poses a bit of a problem about sleeping arrangements for tonight, at any rate."

"Don't worry about it, boss," Rigsby quickly states. "We can work it out over here."

_Sweet sentiment, Rigs, but not realistic. _

_Not realistic at all._

Rigsby is 6 ft 4. He'll need one bed, reasonably, to himself. And I can't expect Cho and Van Pelt to share the other bed. It's not even considered appropriate for male and female agents to share sleeping quarters on cases. While I have no worries about anyone on the team reporting me for this, I don't want to break protocol more than is strictly necessary.

"No, that won't work. But we do have a couple options. I can bring Jane's cot over here, or you can come back to the other suite and share with us if you'd like to, Van Pelt. Or else, we can get you a third room."

Grace looks a little uncomfortable.

"Boss, you don't have to get a third room just for me. Seriously. We can work it out here, can't we you guys? I mean, I can definitely sleep on a cot. No big deal."

Rigsby nods automatically. Cho gives an assured_ "sure."_

I don't fail to notice that my youngest agent seems to hedge on the suggestion that she actually share a room with Jane and myself. Cho and Rigsby must have filled her in about the details of what had happened before I actually got to the room.

_Because he **had** been screaming._

_And it had been frightening._

_Especially when he hadn't roused from his inner world  
_

_despite my presence  
_

_despite my actions  
_

_despite shaking him_

_calling his name  
_

**That had been a very frightening event to witness.**_  
_

I sigh, but nod in understanding.

* * *

It's quarter to one in the morning before every task is completed.

_The others are okay for the night._

_Jane is relatively calm. _

_Apparently sleeping._

And because he is, I let myself finally press a chaste kiss to his forehead.

"_Dear God - please guard and protect your beloved child. Let him feel safe, and secure. Let him feel loved._"

I brush away a few remnant tears from his face, before rousing to address my own lack of fresh sleep clothes. I quickly shake out my pajama pants, then roll up my socks, before changing into new ones. Socks also extricated from Jane's bag because - let's face it - at this point, I highly doubt he'll care if I borrow his socks. And I don't want to risk going to sleep and getting a small shard of glass lodged in my foot.

When I hit the covers, I'm out like a light.

* * *

Something wakes me up at 3:17AM - according to the motel clock atop the television set. The red square numbers seem almost accusatory in the calmness of the night. The light seems almost insistent and alarmist.

Only then do I realize that I hear running water, and so push back against my blanket covers abruptly. With force.

"Jane?," I call out, before making my way over to the bathroom.

I pound on the door when he fails to respond.

"Jane!," I call even more loudly now, trying to will my heart to beat at a normal pace. "Answer me!"

_He's probably just washing up his hands._

_Probably just had to use the bathroom._

_Don't freak out over nothing, Teresa.  
_

_Keep it together.  
_

When the door opens a few moments later, I realize that my concerns are not completely unfounded.

Jane's eyes look wild. Almost unhinged.

At first I'm worried about some sort of duplicate night terror.

_It's that, or else some sort of breakdown._

_Which would be undoubtedly worse.  
_

But then I realize that he's pacing.

I don't think people pace in the midst of a night terror.

_And he seems almost frantic._

"Jane? Why aren't you sleeping?"

Stupid words.

Stupid silly _ridiculous_ words for a man whose gone through what he's gone through in the last few weeks. For a man whose been forced to remember and revisit what he's had to remember and revisit in the last few days.

But I don't know how else to address his actions.

_Are you losing your mind?_ would not help in this scenario.

So I reach out for him instead, help him back to his bed, where he comes to sit down on the edge of the mattress.

"You have to call Agent Carlsson, Lisbon," he says after a few moments of relative quiet. "We have to go back. We have to go back_ right now_. We have to look for her _right now_!"

_Oh god. _

_Not this again._

_I cannot take anymore of this behavior._

_It's scaring the hell out of me._

"Jane. We've discussed this. They _are_ looking for her. The divers had to stop when it got dark, but they have the nets down and they'll continue on until they find her. They_ will find her_. I promise."

"No! No no _no_! We have to go back and check the grounds. We have to do it right now. Tonight, Lisbon! Morning will be too late!"

"Jane. Please calm down!"

I grasp my hands and squeeze. Anything to get the tremulousness in my own limbs to go away. When I feel relatively stable, I reach for his own arms, which he lets me hold.

_Calm down._

_Please calm down, Jane._

_Please don't do this to yourself anymore._

"Tell me what's going on, okay? Take it slowly - make me understand."

But as soon as I release my hold on his arms - Jane is up again, pacing back and forth.

"She can't be dead, alright? That's what's going on! I didn't _let her die_! We solve cases all the time! Ridiculously backwards cases! But we can't find a little child in time? We can't stop an innocent little child from being murdered? I won't accept that, Lisbon! We didn't fail!"

I try to take regulated breaths. Nothing too shallow, nothing too deep.

"I refuse to believe that she's dead! I refuse to believe that she's in _that_," and he let's out a sound of near anguish, "in _that stream_, icy blue - and I'm sleeping in this bed? All cozy and warm and _safe_? No, Lisbon. I can't just _sleep! That's what's going on!_"

I feel on edge. I feel like breaking down and crying myself.

"Jane - they'll resume the search in the morning," I force my words to sound clinical, almost detached. Too much emotion is not what he needs right now. He's already choking on his emotions. "We can't take back death, Jane. We can't do the impossible, and as much as you want to change this, you can't," I whisper.

"No, that's not_ good enough_! We need to get those dogs back and we need to search properly. Call Carlsson now. We need Sprocket back, and any-"

I grab Jane's arms forcefully now. My emotional reserves are almost completely used up.

"Stop it, Jane! Please just stop it! I know you're hurting. But going back there is not going to accomplish anything!"

He lets out a growl.

"You don't understand Lisbon! I've been going over what happened in my mind. Over and _over again_. Moretti - when I hit him. When I hit him, and we went into the water - right before - his arms weren't wet! His arms _weren't wet_! All night something has been bugging me. All night. Until I realized that's what it was!"

_ Moretti was at the water._

_Watching the stream._

_And he almost seemed to goad us _

_when I asked what happened to Thea._

"That doesn't make any sense, Jane."

"He didn't drown her, Lisbon! That's what I'm saying! He followed her there! But that's all he did. She might have fallen in, or jumped in-"

"Jane - she was _phobic_ of water! She wouldn't have gone into the water herself!"

"But she was even more afraid of him, Lisbon, and she had no where else to go at that point! No where else to run! Listen to me, please - listen to me! Something has been off - about Moretti, about what he's said. The stream was so fast, and he thought she'd be dead soon anyway. He saw her drink the ethylene glycol. In his mind, it was a matter of time. He wouldn't have had to have drown her, because that wouldn't have mattered in the end. What mattered is that he had to make us believe that she was already dead. We just had to stop _looking_ for her right then. Looking for her until the poison did its job."

I try to make sense of the words. His passion.

"That could all be true, Jane. But it doesn't change the fact that Thea was small. Tiny. And that stream was forceful enough as it is - I could barely pull you out. How would she have survived that current on her own?"

"There was a sand bar under my feet, Lisbon. I could feel it! If she stayed near the edge of the soil, and if-"

"The water would still have been over her head, Jane!"

Jane gets up, and jets over to his satchel bag. Within the next few seconds he's pulled out papers and print outs until he locates the journal of Dorothea's mother.

"Read it, Lisbon! Read_ this_ entry! Her daughter was so frightened of the water that she had hired a special instructor who was teaching her to swim in the shallow end. Someone who was specialized in water therapy."

"Water therapy?"

"Thea knew _how_ to swim. She was scared of the water, but she knew how to swim. It makes sense, Lisbon! Moretti's hands were dry when I got to him. So he couldn't have held her under the water. All Moretti had to do was keep us from finding her! In his mind, she'd succumb to the poison before the elements. As long as we gave up searching. Or searched in all the wrong places."

_Except this little girl vomits up her food and drink._

_When upset or overwhelmed._

_And Moretti wasn't likely aware of this behavior. _

_It wasn't something this child would have willingly discussed._

"He'd have no doubts about the ethylene glycol working," I breath out, horrified. "He just needed to keep us from finding her for a day or so. Probably less than that."_  
_

Jane looks equally unnerved, and utterly sick to his stomach.

"She knew how to swim, Lisbon. And if there's even a chance in hell that she could have pulled herself out of that water..."

"Oh my God," I whisper, while Jane pulls off his pajama top, already reaching for his dress shirt. I turn around to give him some basic privacy, though he doesn't seem to care one way or the other.

"I'll call Carlsson," I add, before I likewise pull on my own jacket.

* * *

Agent Carlson finally pulls up the to _Riding Horse_ campsite entrance not even 10 minutes later than our own arrival.

When he gets out of his vehicle, I can see that he's brought a different dog with him this time.

_Not Sprocket._

_Not a blood hound at all._

"Delia takes care of two K-9 unit dogs. She alternates with three other agents on my team," Carlsson says breathlessly. "And since Dell doesn't sleep much, well - I didn't hesitate to call her up. This week, she was looking after this guy here. Gizmo. He's one of our newest, but he's a great sniffer," the bulky man says by way of introduction. He seems rattled, which explains his rambling address at such a time.

Gizmo is a German Shepherd. More puppy than full grown dog, but amazingly obedient, and he watches us as Cho divides up emergency blankets. He passes one over to Carlsson who takes the items with a solemn expression.

"You really think there's a chance we screwed up this badly? Left this little girl in the woods all day?"

Jane crosses his arms across his chest, chin jutted out.

"I think there's more than a little chance. _She's in there_," he says resolutely, while Carlsson opens up the locks, swinging the metal gates aside far enough so that we can easily drive through in the vehicles.

* * *

When we get to the appropriate location, we park the vans as close as possible to the edge of the lake then make our way back to the edge of the rushing water.

Jane is the first person out of the vehicles, as he opens his door before I've brought the van to a complete stop. He jogs over to the edge of the stream with an almost hypnotic stillness, then turns and states when I've approached: "She wouldn't have tried to clear the distance of the water width-wise. The water here is way too violent."

_And he's right._

_Even in the darkness of the night, the water is rushing at a rapid rate._

_The force of it could probably overpower just about any adult._

_Never mind a child.  
_

_"_She probably would have half drifted north for about a good quarter mile or so. There's a turn in the river bank..._here_," and Jane now consults the map of the campsite with his flashlight, crumpled beyond repair, "about half a mile up. If she could have kept her head above water until then, she'd likely have been able to get her footing on the sandbank. Could possibly have crawled out of the water at the bend in the stream."

"So we head north about a quarter mile to a half mile on foot? Should we split up?," I query.

Jane hedges.

"We can't be assured that she's going to willingly reveal herself to our presence. She's scared of the dark, but she's also unlikely to trust us. And why should she, when every person she has ever actively trusted in either failed to protect her or deliberately hurt her? Except for her puppy, of course."

Jane gives an affectionate nod to Gizmo, who sits stoically - ever at the ready, and at full attention.

Van Pelt looks around as if spooked, before stroking the base of the dog's neck.

"What would a little girl do, though? It's unlikely that she got back on the camper trail. The likelihood now is that she's in raw bush territory. Jesus, guys - she must be scared out of her wits!"

Jane nods.

"If she made it out of the water, she's undoubtedly still alive. But she's hiding. She's too scared not to hide. Anyone in her position would hide."

Cho bites his lip. "She'd assume Moretti would still be after her."

I feel chills go up my back, and glance at my watch.

**_It's 4:22 am._**

**_We arrested Moretti almost twelve hours ago._**

_If this child has made it then that means that she's been alone in these woods _

_for almost twelve hours._

_Soaking wet, injured.  
_

_Possibly badly injured.  
_

* * *

We decide to break off into two groups to cover more ground.

In another hour or so, the sun will rise.

But until then, we're in complete darkness.

* * *

About twenty five minutes into our walk, Gizmo pulls tautly against his leash. Lets out a slight whine.

We are more than a mile and a half further than the last known spot where Thea would have been located by the stream.

Carlsson pulls Gizmo aside, still whinging, but no longer straining against his leash.

"You got a lead, boy?," Carlsson asks the pup, who suddenly tugs strongly in a direction that takes us cleanly off the trail. We follow, awkwardly maneuvering ourselves around roots and fallen trees.

_I should have brought boots for this case._

We keep at our hiking for a few minutes, navigating around deeper and deeper bush until Gizmo abruptly stops his movements. He paws at the edge of a nettle bush, then lets out a whimper as a nettle thorn brushes into his wiry leg.

"Keep him back," I pant, while I hand Carlsson my flashlight. "He could cut himself up quite badly on this plant."

Jane remains immobile behind us. As if rooted to the spot.

I lower myself to my hands and knees and try to catch sight of what's underneath the bush.

If Gizmo's pawing and noises are any indication - the child is here.

_Not in the water._

_Not any longer._

_Jane was right._

My eyes have still not fully adjusted to the darkness, but then - almost as if I am studying a magic 3D photo - Dorothea Castleton begins to form right in front of me.

At first the image doesn't even make sense: all bony edges, and lean limbs curled in distrustfully upon one another.

The child looks like a bundled parcel of sticks. Her torso is concave, her cheeks sunken. Her scratched and oozing legs have been brought up to her chest - out of fear, or a need to keep warm, I'm not quite sure.

_Probably both._

"Oh my god," I whisper to myself, before realizing that I have not yet addressed the child directly herself.

_Because I have no idea what to say_

_or how to address this little girl_

_This little girl who has gone through so much  
_

I always know what to say to criminals, punks, and people on the wrong side of the law. But I have no idea what to say to a bone thin, highly traumatized 7 year old. I just continue to stare for another minute or so - almost entranced by her appearance. The reality that she's _alive _almost mind boggling.

Part of me distantly realizes that Thea Castleton is an abnormally pretty little girl, or would be - if she wasn't so skeletal. So deathly-looking. Her eyes are the colors of blueberries and exceptionally round and swollen in her shrunken skull.

"Hello Thea," I whisper, "my name is Teresa. Teresa Lisbon. I work with the police. We've been looking for you for a long time now. Me, and some other police men and police women."

Those doll-like eyes blink, then turn and stare back at the ground. I can see a crusty ring of red-black around the girl's mouth.

She's obviously brought up blood recently.

_This little girl should be in the hospital._

_She should have been in the hospital **weeks** ago._

"Other police people and some nurses and an ambulance are going to be here soon. Everything is going to be okay now."

_'Okay now'_?

What a lie.

_But I'm bad with kids at the best of times._

_And 7 is such an awkward age._

"We're going to help you get out from under there, alright, Thea?"

I start to stand up when Thea lets us out a tangled shriek, quickly muffled back down into a raspy shuddering breath. The nettle bush rustles as she tries to back up further away from us.

"Dammit," I hear Jane curse quietly before he comes over, also lowering himself down to our section of space.

"_Shussssh_. It's okay, it's okay, Thea. You can stay under there if you want, kiddo," and his voice is soothing, and kind -_ like it always is when he's talking to children_ - but this time it also has enough of a jittery edge to give away his long standing exhaustion. His emotional turmoil. "No one is going to force you to come out from under there, okay honey?"

The movement of escape abruptly stops, the bush stops rustling, and for a single moment all I can hear is horrid gulping.

Horrible wheezing breaths while the child sucks in huge droughts of air.

Then I realize...

_She's panicking._

_She's having a panic attack._

"Not too fast," Jane says so lightly, so barely above a whisper that even _I_ have to strain to hear him. "Little breaths. Just little ones. That's it, Thea. Baby breaths. Teensy little baby breaths. Just like this. Here, follow what I do, honey."

He mimes what he wants the child to do, and she follows along until her breathing diminishes back down into something that isn't so audible to the entire team.

"You're okay, see? You're okay, and you can breathe just fine. That's it, _low and soft, little baby breaths_, just like that. All that fear, all of that fear is rushing out of your body, leaving through your mouth, every time you breathe. Every time you breathe, a little more fear decides to leave your body. Can you feel it leaving your body, Thea?"

Those huge eyes are now trained solely on Jane. He gives Thea an encouraging little smile, then carries on.

"Can you feel that light? All around you? The moonlight? There is a soft light, all white, and it is slowly filling you, and where all the fear was before - now there is only a soft moonlight, and your whole body can feel it, and now your heart feels better and every part of you knows that you are going to be fine. You're going to be fine, and no one is going to hurt you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you ever again, sweetheart."

His words are low and hypnotic. A gentle rolling hill. A deep but gentle thunder, from miles away.

A few moments pass, and then: "My name is Patrick. I work with Teresa. We know you are very scared, Thea. We know that, and we know you must be very cold and thirsty right now, too."

The little girl _is_ shaking. Even in the darkness, with the ambient light from the flashlight, we can see the muted color of her skin. Her lips look drawn - cracked and dry. She looks like an unwrapped mummy. One whose wandered away from her tomb and now finds herself back in the land of the living. Confused. Afraid. Completely out of sorts.

"I hate being cold myself," Jane says softly, gently. "And thirsty. Two of the things I hate the very most in the whole world, I think," he tries again, some of the shaking now gone from his own voice.

Jane quickly unzips his satchel bag and pulls out one of the emergency silver thermal blankets. The plastic wrap crinkles loudly in the relative quietude of the forest.

"I'm going to pass this to you. It's just a blanket, so you won't feel so cold once you wrap it around yourself, alright honey?"

Jane starts to push one edge under the small patch of the nettle bush. After a few moments, Thea tugs the rest inside, and the rustling of the bush is heard once more. Within a very short period of time, she has the entire silver blanket completely wrapped around her body, covering her head. Her face is suddenly plunged into darkness and I am reminded of a snap turtle.

"I also have a juice box here. It's grape. Grape was always my favorite when I was little," Jane replies softly, opening up the straw and pushing the straw through the thin foil opening until juice plumes up into the plastic bendable portion. "I'm very thirsty though. Can I have a sip first? Do you mind?"

Those huge eyes just continue to watch.

I distantly and sickeningly realize that Thea has not yet uttered a single word yet. Save for the mangled and rapidly repressed scream - she hasn't made any noise whatsoever.

Jane does take a sip. Stops. Swallows. Takes another sip.

"Mmmm, this is good juice, but I don't think I can finish this. Do you want the rest? It's too sweet for me."

Thea is still mute.

Her head wavers back and forth, indecisive, before I catch the most minute nod. So subtle, so bare in expression.

Jane passes the container to Thea. I see the edge of thin and dirty fingertips come to brush up for the box, but not fully grasp the container. I then realize that Jane hasn't put the beverage close enough for her to reach without fear that she can accept the offering without being pulled forcefully from her sanctuary.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. It's too far away, isn't it?," and Jane nudges the juice box closer. "Here you go. You take it. I don't think I want the rest."

Thea takes it and snatches it back like a starving rat whose just whisked away a chunk of cheese or some equally edible prize.

Within a few moments that faintest sound of the juice being consumed is heard.

Despite myself, despite this horrific situation, I can't help but slightly smile.

A few minutes more pass before the juice box is slid back out from the tangled mass of bush.

Jane smiles faintly at the display.

"Still thirsty, honey?"

Another barely seen nod of her head, and now I can hear the distant alarm of the ambulance sirens.

Thea also hears the din and starts to bury even further into the bush. Frantically.

"No, no - honey, it's just an ambulance," Jane soothes. "With blankets. It's warm in the ambulance, and the people will be very nice. You'll be able to close your eyes, and they'll layer you with lots of blankets and pillows. You'll be able to curl up under a ton of them. Soft, and warm, and safe."

Thea, as it stands, must be more exhausted than just about anyone else here.

_Firstly, she's emaciated._

_Secondly, she's dehydrated._

_And she's just spent over 12 hours in the woods, wet and cold_

_certain that someone was coming to kill her_

"But here's the thing, kiddo," Jane states even more slowly than previously. "We can't get you to the warmth and the pillows and the blankets ourselves. Not without you coming out from under there. Do you think you can be very brave and come out from underneath there now? By yourself? Just a little bit at a time?"

Thea opens her mouth to speak, and it makes a perfect O. Her mouth then seems to hover over the words she wants to say and her lips tremble.

I can almost feel her frustration and tremulousness as she struggles to get her words out.

"It's okay Dorothea," Jane hums, "you can talk to us. All the thoughts in your head? You can pick them and give us just a few little words. Tiny little words, just like flowers, and you can speak one or two of them. Make them bloom. Flower-words. I know you can do that._ I know you can_."

The mouth slowly closes up, and the child gulps. Stares straight at Jane, then shakes her head.

Her whole body is tense.

"It's okay to speak, Thea. Nothing bad will happen if you talk to us."

Thea then angles her head towards the earth and pokes at the soil with one scratched and bleeding fingertip.

"No," she whispers. "No."

"No? You can't talk to us? Or, no - you want to stay under there?"

"Nooo," the child stresses to us in a wrecked voice, silenced by so much more than primal fear.

Jane swallows.

"Okay, Thea. That's okay too. You don't have to talk. I understand that's very hard for you right now. I know how scary it can be to talk when you're really scared. But I really hope you'll consider coming out from under there. It must be very cold and scratchy under that bush, with all those sharp nettles digging into your back. That must not feel very good at all."

Thea, on impulse, goes to rub her back. As she shifts about, I can more clearly see the extent of her injuries.

Somehow I manage to conceal my gasp.

_Her back is coated in blood._

_This little girl is a walking wound._

"Hurts," Thea finally whispers, her voice low and gravelly.

Jane hesitates slightly, then verbally agrees.

His eyes look faint, distant.

"I know, Thea. I know you hurt a lot right now."

The two watch one another for a few more moments, Thea fully guardedly and Jane fully openly - _rare as that is for him_ - before I hear the lowered voices of two rapidly approaching paramedics.

Grace waves over the newcomers, and quietly informs them of the situation. They stall their motions, and wait patiently to the side of the trail while Thea finally starts to inch her way out from underneath the bush. Jane removes his jacket and slowly drapes it over her bleeding back in an effort to prevent any more of the flesh from being caught on the prickly branches. All truth be told, it actually looks as if a knife has ripped through her shirt. There are holes from where parts of the bush have caught her shirt and pulled. Broken edges of sticks gorging into her side from all directions.

Finally, after several minutes of hesitant movements, Thea is freed from the confining branches and she slowly orients herself upright. As she does, she pulls in her twig-like limbs and secures the silver thermal blanket more tightly across her body. Her forehead is bleeding, scratched by the offending plant. Insanely, I recollect a latent Sunday School image: Jesus wearing a crown of thorns, his forehead scratched and bleeding.

"Christ almighty, this kid's a skeleton. Someone's starved her," I overhear the male paramedic breathe to his colleague. I abruptly turn and eye the medics, shaking my head authoritatively until they stop speaking. They seem to get the message and immediately stop talking.

Jane motions to Thea slightly with his hand and she moves on her hands and knees in his direction, steeling herself for the next critical step.

"You're safe now," Jane promises, his words no more than air and kindness.

_But it's all he has to offer._

Thea studies Jane's face for a few moments, then raises her right hand and gently paints small squiggly lines across the air, her eyes squinting as if absorbed in the task.

Honestly - I have no idea what the kid is doing, but Jane seemingly does and he lets out a choked laugh.

_I'll have to ask him more about that later..._

_About what that action meant._

"Come here," he says a little more loudly now but no less gently, offering her his hand which she remarkably takes. Then he puts one hand underneath her knees and foists her up towards his chest, standing during the process.

Thea buries her head into his chest, blocking out the world, and Jane goes to encircle her tiny frame.

The paramedics stand around dumbly, unsure how to proceed as Jane walks back towards the direction of the vehicles and waits by the ambulance until the others catch up.

I follow along, opening the ambulance door and jumping up into the small space, before coming to sit alongside Jane and the child.

Jane sits on the primary stretcher, Thea still wrapped around his torso like a baby monkey - holding on for dear life. After a few moments the female paramedic, Cynthia, slowly tries to extract Thea from her tangled hold on our consultant - which is a mistake as the child yelps and grasps on even more tightly at that point.

Jane winces.

"Just a second," he murmurs to the medic, who is starting to look impatient.

"Look here, Thea," he says calmly. "I'm going to stay right here, and Teresa is going to be right here too. But can you turn around just a _little bit_ so that this nice nurse can just look at you very quickly?"

I feel a sinking sense of doom. Because as soon as we get to the hospital, Thea's going to have to be more than_ looked at_.

I know it.

Jane knows it too.

She'll undoubtedly require blood tests, minimally.

_I sure as hell hope this kid isn't phobic of needles._

Cynthia readies a blood pressure cuff as Thea finally turns around, blinking against the light of the ambulance. The cuff reads as a _child's size_, but it still looks like it's going to be too large for Thea's stick of a forearm.

"This is a very special device," Cynthia states warmly. "Have you seen one of these before?"

Thea leans back into Jane, but doesn't turn completely around. She just eyes the cuff warily, and then nods.

"Have you had your blood pressure checked before, sweetie?"

Thea hesitates, but finally nods again.

"And that didn't hurt at all, did it?"

More apprehension, before a slight shake of her head.

"_Nooo_," Thea breathes, the drawn out sound currently exposing a mouth devoid of two front teeth.

Cynthia smiles.

"That's what we are going to do right now, if I can borrow your arm for less than a minute?"

Thea looks to Jane, as if asking for permission, and once again I cannot fully understand how he's secured the affection of yet another child. Especially one so traumatized, and in such a short period of time.

He looks to me for a few moments, then he nods.

"No, it's alright. There is no pain," he agrees in solidarity. "I've had my blood pressure taken hundreds of times. Never hurt one little bit. Just a bit of pressure, but no pain."

Thea slowly extends her right arm as instructed after another few seconds of internal deliberation. She's already wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, which I realize is still damp.

_She must be utterly freezing._

_She already is little more than skin pulled tightly over bone._

"Okay, so I'm just going to slip this little band around your arm, just like this," and Cynthia slowly explains each process as she works, Thea eying the entire endeavor with her wide owl eyes, unblinking.

_Heavily focused on each and every movement._

"Then I squeeze this little ball, just like this," and now the entire cuff inflates, until firmly swollen against the child's arm. "A few more times, that's right - see? No pain, just as Patrick promised...," Cynthia adds distractedly now, a frown on her face.

"69 over 40, Dimi," she sighs to her colleague a few seconds later. Louder, now, to Jane: "you gave her some juice or something, right Mr. Jane?"

Jane nods. "Just a few minutes before you guys got there. That wasn't the wrong thing to do, was it?"

I hear Cynthia mildly swear. Almost inaudibly.

"No, no that's fine. She's probably still very dehydrated. The doctors will have to see the best way to raise her blood pressure. Could be some sort of electrolyte disturbance."

Cynthia slowly extracts the cuff from Thea's bruised arm, then pulls out an ear thermometer.

"Just going to take your temperature now too, okay sweetie? This doesn't hurt either."

The process is repeated: Thea bending her body any which way, almost doll-like in her lack of resistance.

A few seconds later, another slight frown.

_These medics need to develop better poker faces._

_Especially when dealing with terrified children.  
_

"Dimi, let USC know her stats. They'll need the heating blankets. This kid is moderately hypothermic."

Jane now readjusts Thea on his lap, whispers to the child: "Give me your hands, Thea. Let's get your hands all warm, okay?"

He then cups his own hands, blowing warm air onto them, before taking Thea's much smaller arms and rubbing them several times.

"Gotta get the old circulation going, don't we?," he murmurs to her. He repeats the process a few more times, before she makes a motion to turn back and reorient herself away from the other occupants.

"Ooo. Oo. O-," she breathes against Jane's torso. Then she swallows, closes her mouth. Brushes her lips with her fingertips as if surprised she can't make the sounds necessary to communicate. Surprised, perhaps a little frustrated, but not at all scared by the prospect.

"That's not from the ethylene, is it?," I test easily, concealing any discomfort I feel in even asking the question. "Her problem speaking? Could that be from ethylene glycol?"

Cynthia's gaze flickers over the small body before she shakes her head.

"No. I've not heard of ethylene glycol doing that to anyone. Probably psychological," she adds a moment later, her eyes weighted with compassion. With understanding.

Jane rubs Thea's back lightly, aware of the wounds.

I repress a sigh, and control my emotions when I realize with a deep sickness that Thea still has no understanding that her family has been murdered. That her father, and most importantly - her mother - are dead.

"Feel better? Hands feel warmer?," Jane asks after a few more minutes, watching me carefully. Shaking his head in a resolute message.

_Not now._

_Definitely not now._

The little girl nods against Jane's shoulder, her mouth opening again as if to speak.

"_Hssss_," she ends up breathing against Jane's jacket, before suddenly taking one of his hands, palm side, and stroking out the same squiggles that she has demonstrated with her air brushing earlier in the evening.

This time, however, I realize the words may be of a different variety as whatever she writes sends a direct and clear message to Jane.

_A message that fails to elicit the same smile._

In fact, when she's done writing against Jane's palm he swallows roughly instead.

"I know, kiddo. I know you want your mom."

The large eyes continue to study Jane's own, before:

"_Mo-mmmy_."

Jane looks to me helplessly.

I've never seen Jane look so helpless before.


	30. Chapter 30

**Title - Little Stars - Part 30**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **I've been in a bit of a writing rut lately. Good or bad, this chapter was brought to you courtesy of the letter** C **for** Coffee**, and the letter** D **for** Depeche Mode. **Also - lucky for you guys (rolls eyes at lame-self), but I think I'm still going to need _another_ chapter after this... In order to wrap up everything here, I would have had to make this a 15,000 word chapter, minimally. **  
**

* * *

**Lisbon's POV  
**

* * *

Our ambulance pulls up to the curve of the street side. Halogens bleed out from the intake department's entry way, glowing in an almost sinister warning. Red-hot pokers. Accusing eyes, watching down on all who enter and bleating out _pain! sickness! death!_

Even the air feels condensed tonight. A choking purple night, currant-thick and foreboding.

_Or maybe it's just me._

Maybe every keyed up feeling, and my newly borne anxieties, are casting a shade across icons or places that should make me feel secure or safe.

So I tell myself that it's just that holdover anxiety from the night's revelations. From Jane, and his confessional. From the fact that he's remembered something God awful. Is _remembering_ something horrific. Something he's repressed and still doesn't want to face. Something I can't even help him face right now because we've been on an insane merry-go-round for the last three weeks with barely enough time to sleep, never mind _talk._

_Scarcely enough time to eat..._

And he looks worn out.

He looks almost as sickly as the child herself.

* * *

When our vehicle comes to a complete stop, Jane rises a little unsteadily, Thea still clinging to him in a manner not dissimilar to a baby monkey clinging onto its mother. The child's head is askew, angled at an awkward bent. Her eyes are almost completely vacant.

_She's in shock._

Cynthia opens the doors, mentions that she'll escort us in.

_That a doctor is waiting for us already._

_Apparently._

Thea doesn't blink at the words spoken or the slamming of the ambulance doors, and as we walk towards the automated entrance and are accosted with the neon intensity of the ER, I can't help but think that she looks even more unnatural in her sickness. The lights here create even further exaggerated hollows and crevices and her emaciated form looks even more drawn out and distorted as we proceed inside.

I suck in a sort staggering nausea when Thea's eyes finally turn to meet my own: her eyes are lined with the smudgy markings of what looks suspiciously like cyanosis. Even her lips are tinged with that awful blueness, and Thea studies me for a few seconds as if in a trance. I smile up at her with as much optimism and cheer that I can generate. And then the spell suddenly breaks apart and she turns around - breaking our brief connection - and buries her face against Jane's shoulder.

A moment later he repositions her very slight weight against his side. I don't miss the fact that he brings his hand near her head and let's it hover. As if he wants to stroke her scalp, but can't overcome his own reservations and concerns for any sort of touch, any sort of softness that could possibly further overwhelm this little girl.

* * *

The waiting room is neither absent nor full.

There's about 6 or 7 people waiting awkwardly about in red chairs.

_Two of whom are children._

_Toddlers._

One of the children - a chubby boy with curly ash-blond hair - looks up sharply as Jane carries Thea inside. Oddly enough, just the solidifying presence of this stick-thin child seems to stop the pre-schooler's crying. Almost immediately.

He watches the new girl with a morbid sort of fearful fascination.

_He's probably transfixed by this girl._

_This girl and her bony limbs and strangely whittled form._

_A skeleton shadow cast against the playroom theater._

_Too drawn out to be real._

* * *

A nurse - _she readily identifies herself as Camilla_ - comes out from behind the intake desk and hurries on over to us.

"Doctor Andrews was informed of the situation," Camilla mentions to us very quietly, "and you can go right on in. The other ER nurses will let you know where to go if you have problems. But you'll want to take her to exam room 3F first for-"

Thea begins to shake her head back and forth at this point, her mouth opening up into a gasp.

Not unlike a fish out of water.

I eye Jane in alarm. He's also taken aback as the small girl digs her hands into the material of his suit jacket even more forcibly than before.

"_Shhh shhhhhh,_" Jane hushes, "hey, it's _okay._ It's okay, honey. We'll just see the doctor really quickly, make sure you-," Jane is forced to stop speaking when Thea lets out a sound that has placed itself halfway between a whimper and a scream.

_The panic attack is back._

Her head shakes back and forth with extreme rapidity.

**_'No. No. No.'_**

Jane crouches down low until he can align his eyes with her unbelievably stunted 3 foot-something height.

"I know you are scared right now, Thea. But you don't have to be. I promise you: no one is going to hurt you here. I'm not going to let _anyone_ hurt you._ Agent Lisbon_ won't let anyone hurt you, sweetheart. But you might be injured or sick, and we need to let the doctor check you out, to make sure-," and his voice stills immediately when the child suddenly backs up and away from the grasp, her head still swaying in alarm.

And then I see her look then, and I know.

_**I know...**_

The child's back goes rigid, her body coiling up. A spring ready to snap.

_And then she's running down the hall_

_past us_

_past the elevators._

It takes a few seconds for the surreal nature of the scene to dissipate and for my own legs to kick into gear.

* * *

I scoop Thea up from around her waist - as gently as I can, given the fact that she's kicking her legs back and forth as if tantruming.

But she's not_ tantruming._

**She's panicking**, and she grasps for the banister with a death grip that belies her slight weight.

_You wouldn't think she'd have any energy left._

_But somehow... Somehow she does._

_**It's baffling.**  
_

Of course, she's probably operating on pure adrenaline at this point. Never mind the fact that she's also capable of letting out a degree of noise that is surprising for a body so compact. And when she lets out a holler a moment later, I try not to wince.

**_A second after that her tiny fists come up, trying to smack me._**

Not aggressively.

_Frantically._

I finally manage to hold her arms flush against her body. Keep them pinned by her sides.

I don't have any other choice.

_The kid may be small._

_But she's hysterical._

* * *

Jane is at my side a few seconds later, his face flushed and his eyes horrified.

"Let me take her, Lisbon," he says softly, and I don't argue. I pass him the little girl, and immediately the screaming stops as Thea buries her head under his jacket lapel yet again.

Her eyes are now completely swollen up by her _on-again off-again_ crying. Only once she's secured her skull completely under Jane's coat do I see the flickering gaze come to survey the landscape of white hallways and roaming medical professionals.

_She's taking everything in._

_Everything. _

_E__very comment. _

_Every move._

Hyper-vigilance, of course, is a sign of PTSD.

When I try to catch her eyes a moment later, Thea repositions herself beneath Jane's jacket. The motion reminds me of some woodland creature. Some animal.

_A rabbit, perhaps - or else something equally timid._

* * *

Camilla comes round the edge of my peripheral vision. I can see that she's accompanied by at least two other nurses. I hear the tallest nurse -_ a man in his early 40's with raven black hair_ - mention something about_ "needing sedation."_

"No," Jane whispers, "no, you don't want to do that. She needs to know that she has some control. Some presence here. That when she cries, we will hear her cries. We will hear, and we will listen."

"Mr. Jane, I understa-," Camilla begins bluntly.

But he's not to be stopped now. He's not going to defend a nurse. A doctor.

_A hospital administrator._

_He's not going to truly listen to anyone but this little girl._

_Not right now.  
_

"Just...give me a minute. _Please_," Jane requests. "Just a minute," he breathes. "I think I can calm her down enough to make this happen."

Camilla holds up one hand, and the other nursing personnel stay back. I'm reminded of foot-soldiers or hoplites with their insistent hand signals and hierarchy.

"Mr. Jane, this child is exhausted and she needs to be seen by a doctor immediately. If we cannot control her actions well enough, sedation _will_ be mandatory. I'm sorry, but she's in much too fragile a state to be working herself up like she's doing," Camilla tries again, and for one illuminating moment I realize how cold and cutting those words must sound to an overwhelmed and highly frightened little girl.

Jane nods, his face almost sorrowful as he backs up against the white wall of the ER hallway, then slowly drops to the floor while the little girl crumples up, trying to make herself seem even smaller. Inconspicuous.

_As if that can be done._

_I've never SEEN a more conspicuous child.  
_

"Honey," he tries again, "I promise you, the doctor just needs to look you over for-"

"No," Thea rasps as he carries her closer to the examination table at the insistence of one of the other ER nurses.

It's then that I realize just how painfully sore this kid's voice sounds. It almost sounds as if she has laryngitis.

"I'll be right with you the whole time, okay?," and I can tell from the torn look on Jane's face that he absolutely hates what he's been asked to do now.

"_Nooooo!_," she wheezes more insistently now, squeezing at her eyes in exhaustion. Jane rubs her back in barely-there circles, then jostles her lightly against his side in a swaying motion.

He's staring at the examination table as if it's poisonous.

Camilla's features soften somewhat. "_Mr. Jane_-"

"I know! I get it. I _do_," Jane appeals in resignation, "But she just needs to know that we _care_ that she's hurting. That we aren't going to ignore her when she says _no_, when she says_ stop_."

Jane is, of course, only talking to Thea now.

Only an inexperienced person could ever mistake his speech as one intended for the nurse in question.

"She needs to know that it's _okay to speak_; that speaking didn't make the bad things happen. She needs to know that we are so sorry that she's been scared for so long. That she was ever scared at all."

At this point, I don't even care what the doctors or the nurses - or even what the rest of the team - may see. Or think.

I don't care what _anyone_ may think.

And Jane's words _do_ seem to be working: Thea lets him hold her, lets him sway her back and forth in time to his words. The whole routine reminds me of the back and forth rocking that you'd try with a colicky infant to get them to stop crying, and within the next few seconds Thea stops resisting. Jane now puts one of his arms underneath her legs and maneuvers to hold her more securely against his torso.

"She needs to know that we are so, _so sorry_ she was hurt," and Thea is now mostly silent save for some choked coughing as she catches her breath.

But she's better than she was.

She's immensely calmer.

Less fearful.

_And he didn't even have to hypnotize her._

* * *

The first woman to approach us since Thea's outburst is a nurse in her middle 20's with platinum blond hair, wearing colorful gecko scrubs.

_Obviously more of a kid-oriented nurse. _

She gives us a kind smile before making her way over to us, cautiously.

_Possibly a young mother herself._

_She has that happy, ragged look about her._

Jane deposits Thea on the examination table gingerly. The gasping sounds (thank God) have all but departed, and the newest nurse comes over with a small gown now, and helps put it over Thea's chest, thoughtfully helping to remove the soaked t-shirt from the girl in perhaps the most concealing manner possible. I appreciate the sensitivity, and tell her so, lightly.

She smiles at me sadly. No doubt she's been told about this child.

And even if she hasn't been, Thea looks like a chronically abused child. No one in a million years would chalk up her form to some sort of stomach ulcers.

_Even stomach ulcers don't cause this degree of...wasting._

"My name is Sarah. I've heard your name is Dorothea?," the woman now says brightly to the child.

Thea just stares straight ahead - not at the woman but also not at Jane or myself. She makes no motion to answer.

"Alright," Sarah exhales after a few seconds, "well, I'm going to leave you these pajama pants. You can put them on by yourself, right?"

Thea's hunched form slowly moves.

_A nod._

"By myself," she whispers, her eyes large and full and still staggering dissociative.

_It freaks me out.  
_

Sarah smiles gently, the brightness now tarnished with the weighty dose of reality.

**_This is not a normal child._**

**_This is not a child you can comfort with a smile and a sucker, and a pat on the back._**

"So I can just draw this curtain around you, and it'll give you a bit more privacy, okay? And you let us know when you are done, alright honey?," Sarah continues on, awkwardly.

_She probably isn't used to such a cold reception from anyone._

"Thea?," I briefly tap the girl's forearm lightly.

Thea finally nods. More hesitantly than before.

"Okay," Sarah sighs, then gets up to leave, Jane also departing at the same time, biting his lip.

I'm about to likewise do the same, when I feel cold fingertips touch my forearm in almost a mirror-image sort of response to my earlier gesture. When I turn around, Thea is starring at the creased hospital gown. She's hunched up.

"Thea?," I test. "Do you want me to stay here with you?"

The little girl lets out a shuddery breath.

"Hmm?," I clarify as airily as possible.

_Nothing heavy._

_Nothing strong._

_Nothing of force._

"Uh huh," she says finally.

I nod.

"Okay. I'll stay. But I'll turn around. You tell me when you are all done, alright?"

I take her hand, and squeeze it when she doesn't release her grasp on my sweater.

* * *

Jane returns after about five minutes, and before any doctors or nurses can come to check in on us.

"What's the hold up?," I ask him in frustration. "Why are they dragging this out?"

I know I'm being unfair.

And irritable.

_After all, there would be no way to understand the child's time-line. And just because she's ready to see the doctor now, and each passing second means her anxiety is building, not reducing...well, seriously - that's not the doctor's fault._

_I know that. I do._

_My head gets it._

My heart doesn't care.

Neither, apparently, does Jane's.

"Doctors," Jane scoffs under his breath in condemnation, before depositing himself into a navy blue plastic chair and proceeding to comment lightly on Thea's new outfit.

"I like those pajamas, kiddo. Those are _very_ cool. But how come you get yellow star pajamas? Every time I've ever visited the doctors, they never give me cool pajamas like that to wear," he says softly, with a light smile teasing his features.

Thea, apparently, doesn't seem to understand that he's just trying to lighten the mood. She continues to gaze ahead in her shell-shocked way. Finally she bites her lip, uncertain how to respond.

_Too personal, perhaps?_

_Too laden with danger?_

Sleeping, to Thea, equaled the dark.

The dark, her father, and pain.

It equaled the worst possible time to be alone, to be small.

It meant being quiet, and shutting everything awful out.

_Pajamas, sleeping, pillows. _

_Bed._

There are probably dozens of words that mean _bad_ or _dangerous_ to her. Nouns that shouldn't generate any fear or anxiety for a child.

But do, in her case.

I hear Jane repress a sigh, his eyes flickering on over to mine, regrettably. I can sense he's come to the same conclusion.

"You don't have to be afraid, Thea. Not of me, and not of Teresa. Teresa is a very awesome police lady. She is the best at protecting people. Even me. And I get into a lot of trouble. I drive too fast, and I talk back and make doctors annoyed with me. I don't listen to any of my bosses like I should, but Teresa, now if _she_ were my boss..."

I roll my eyes.

"I am your boss, _Patrick,_" I retort, in feigned irritation.

Jane smiles at the little girl, equally pretending to ignore my put-upon bad mood.

"She sure_ thinks_ she is, that's for sure! Telling me not to sleep on the sofa all the time. Telling me to work, and to stop drinking tea and eating chocolate because we have to _work_."

This time I sense a slight improvement in the child, as sits up slightly and bites her lip, apparently amused. Just the tiniest bit.

But it's something.

_I'll take it._

Jane continues to yammer on in his dry, exaggerating manner. Painting scenario after scenario of how he always has to dodge his workaholic boss (or non-boss, apparently). I do my best to play the role of semi-aggravated friend, which actually seems to solidify Thea's trust.

* * *

A half an hour later, and five tall tales later - and Thea is still fighting off exhaustion.

Her eyes are dropping, but she refuses to cave in and actually sleep.

"I know you must want to just close your eyes and go to sleep. And you can do that, Thea. You can do that right now. Teresa and I will stay right with you. Nothing bad will happen. The doctor will just listen to your heart and look in your eyes and take your temperature..."

Again, her head is shaking back and forth.

Less frantically than before perhaps, but still insistent.

Still just a shade under what I'd call strained.

"But that's not scary," Jane encourages. "That's not scary at all, is it?"

The little girl's feature scowl up as she tries to speak, still inhibited. When after another moment or so she cannot make the necessary sounds she makes a motion with her index finger and gently pushes into Jane's forearm.

"A needle?," Jane asks softly. "You don't have to be afraid of a needle, Thea. I'll be right with you, needle or no needle. Teresa will be right with you, too."

I nod, try to catch the child's gaze.

"That's right, Thea," I start, uncertainly. "We will stay right here with you. No matter what."

The fright on her face is still readily apparent and with eyes still trained on Jane, she takes his hand and writes out three symbols on his palm. His eyes turn from being open one moment to almost pained and completely stormy the next.

_Torrential._

"Die?," he tests woodenly, looking as if someone has punched him in the stomach. "No, sweetheart," he states shakily, "you are not going to die."

I feel my stomach retreat up into my throat.

"No one is going to hurt you," Jane adds, his eyes holding mine in helplessness. "No more hurting. And I know you can be brave right now. I know you are a very brave kid. I know you are. Even if you don't talk to us, _I know_."

Jane now offers her his hand to hold. She grasps it lightly.

* * *

Doctor Andrews arrives on the scene within a matter of minutes. He has a mop of curly orange-blond hair and light green eyes, not to mention that ivory-white skin of a true redhead.

He pulls back the curtain that surrounds the exam table, already outfitted with crinkly paper. Thea's now dressed in a pull-back blue and white child's size dressing gown.

At long last the Doctor slowly unties the cords from the back of the gown, and slowly parts the thin material away from her sunken chest.

Thea bites her lip, then looks down at her lap as if knowing what's coming.

_As if ashamed._

I repress a gasp.

Jane, I can tell, does the same.

The doctor's eyes skitter in concern, before taking on the almost desensitized air of a physician.

The child looks like a Holocaust victim.

"Well, we have some obvious emaciation," he states slowly, almost to himself, "Probably a severe protein deficiency has aggravated the condition further," and he traces a line under the child's ribcage, before gently maneuvering the little girl to take in her arms, her backside.

I can't help but think that these are words that should be kept to file notes, and discussed only with Thea's next of kin,_ alone._ Almost as if reading my mind, Thea looks up at me. Directly at me.

It's the first time she's looked directly into my eyes, and not just in my general direction. And her eyes seem to plead something with me. Something_ of_ me.

I realize that even though I've never thought of myself as a maternal sort of person, I feel a strong and fierce protectiveness for this girl. I want to help her. I do.

But I have no idea what to say.

Thea moves suddenly when the doctor palpates her small side, pressing in slightly below her ribcage.

"That hurts?," Dr. Andrews tests, and when she looks up, her expression is wary. On an older child, you'd almost call it sullen, perhaps - what with her shoulders hunched, her body not yielding. Her eyes distrustful and upset.

The doctor presses on the opposite side of her torso and this time she actually yelps, then shrinks back on the table, wounded. She wraps her scratched hands around herself, crossing them in X's over the top of her chest.

Her mouth is open just a little bit. Enough to expose her missing front teeth. I can now sense that she's breathing through her mouth, as her nose is plugged.

She looks incredibly self-conscious.

Jane frowns, and mutters a _"wait a second" _andbefore Dr. Andrews can finish the exam, slips the fabric up and over Thea's shoulder, leaving only the back of the garment untied.

"Doctor, can I talk to you for a moment over by the door, please?"

It doesn't take a genius to ascertain what Jane is going to be mentioning in the next few minutes.

* * *

It's just the two of us now, surrounded by a sea of glaring white lights, ER noises, and erratic beeping.

_I don't know if it's the right thing to say. _

_I have no idea if it's helpful._

But I speak before I can help myself.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know," I say softly to Thea, who is now trying to keep the top flap of her dressing gown up and over her chest. "You don't have to be embarrassed, okay?"

She continues to sit, starring at her lap, white clenched knuckles trying to conceal her body with all her might. Despite my words, I can sense that she's still absolutely mortified. That nothing I say is likely to change that fact.

"You know," I add, knowing that she _is_ listening, and not wanting to give up too soon. Not when I know she's hanging onto my every word. "I hated seeing the doctor when I was a kid too. Absolutely hated it. Still don't like it, even though I'm so much bigger than you, and have had much longer to get over my dislike of hospitals."

Blueberry eyes dart to the left, listening intently.

"Oh yeah," I breathe out, "I _hated_ those dressing gowns. My face used to go bright red. Like a tomato. Maybe I was just such a private kid. But I didn't like to talk about things either, and I grew up with all brothers, the only girl. I always wanted a sister, to make it easier."

Thea scratches her cheek, lets out a strangled breath.

"Did you ever want a sister?," I try, hoping she'll take the bait.

Thea finally nods.

"A little sister or a bigger sister?," I ask with renewed interest.

Thea bites her lip, looking torn.

"Big," she whispers after several seconds.

I stop.

Take a deep breath.

_I know what that means._

And I know why she suddenly looks like she's going to cry.

"You know that no one is going to hurt you here though, don't you Thea?"

The slight and regulated breathing comes to a stop.

_She's holding her breath._

_Waiting for what, I'm not sure._

"Hmm?," and now I do gently touch her head. Briefly. "You know that, don't you? That no one's going to hurt you, or touch you in a bad way. I won't let anyone hurt you like that. Because I'm a police lady, just like Patrick said and I would never let _anyone_ hurt a little kid. Not ever."

Finally, I hear a slight intake of breath. It sounds rushed, and tinged with sound. A word, perhaps - but so faint, I'm not even sure if she's tried to speak and couldn't, or if my mind is just hearing things now.

Hearing what I want to hear.

A sign of progress.

A sign of something hopeful.

* * *

I lay my own hand out palm side front up.

After a few seconds Thea brings her pointer finger down to touch my skin, lightly stroking the flesh with random lines. A circle, with radiating lines.

Like a sun.

"If you give me your hand, I'll draw you a picture too," I say gently, which causes her to stop what she's doing. I can feel the intensity of her elfin eyes taking me in, studying me.

_Trying to understand what's safe._

_What's loaded._

When she offers me her hand a moment later, I feel a combination of victorious relief - but also heavy responsibility. Relieved that in some small way I've been able to help calm this child down, and make her feel even marginally more protected. Alarmed by how truly underdeveloped she is, as her hand barely takes up half the space of my own.

_She's not only emaciated. _

_She's been stunted._

_She's scarcely larger than a toddler._

"Okay, my turn. So I'm going to draw you a picture, and I want you to guess what it is when I'm all done, alright?," I begin, once I've finally regained my voice.

The girl's mouth pinches, before she nods.

* * *

I draw a star, studying the design on Thea's pajama pants. I trace it several times until I'm fairly certain that Thea knows _exactly_ what I'm drawing. After all, this is a game I want her to win. This is not a game to stretch her abilities or challenge her.

I just want to keep her calm. I just want to keep her _stable_.

And almost more than anything, I want this little girl to start talking.

The longer her shock and torment hold her captive and impede her ability to vocalize what she's feeling, the harder it's going to be for her once she tries to resume speaking. Never mind the fact that a delay in speaking is going to lead to an equally protracted delay in _healing._

"What's that?," I question when I catch Thea's mouth open very subtlety, her tongue rising to the roof of her mouth. Testing out the word as if its very utterance could be harmful to all involved.

"I think you got it," I encourage, trying to help her along. "Little louder now."

Instead, that small mouth closes up again, before Thea fixes me with a serious expression. Finally she writes out S-T-A-R on my hand.

When Thea's done spelling her answer she pats my hand once. _I'm all done, _the gesture seems to say.

From the periphery of my vision, I can see that Jane has finished speaking with the doctor and is now watching our interaction from the side of the curtain with interest, before he slowly pulls back the curtain and very tentatively approaches us.

Lowering himself down onto his haunches when he does.

"Thea?," he starts easily, "the doctors want to do a few more tests, but a very nice lady doctor is going to listen to your heart and lungs and look in your eyes instead. And Sarah - she was the nurse wearing the very colorful clothes, the nice one who gave you the pajama pants earlier? - she has a blanket and a pillow for you too, in case you want to take a little nap and close your eyes, okay?"

The child still seems far from pleased.

"_But_," and Jane tries to smile, "Teresa is going to stay right with you, and I'm sure she'd love to keep playing your game. And it's your turn now, so you have to think of something really hard to stump her with, okay?"

* * *

"Is it a platypus?," I guess.

It's the most ridiculous answer yet, and it seems to disarm her.

Thea gives me a shy smile, then rubs at her eyes. Shakes her head.

_No._

"No? I am pretty positive that you drew a platypus._ Yeeeah_, I'm pretty sure you're just trying to trick me, aren't you?"

She bites her lip, shakes her head again.

"Is it a Heffalump?," Jane supplies, playing along.

Another head shake, and amazingly enough - a rapidly concealed smile.

It's beautiful.

"Quiet you," I fake-scowl at Jane. "It's my turn to guess. You guessed last time."

Thea just draws out her animal once more on my forearm, while Dr. Beverly Wallace bends her forward - like a positionable doll - and finishes the exam.

"And now I'm just going to listen to your lungs," Dr. Wallace clarifies, re-fixing the yellow fleece pajama top over the child's front. Thea bends over obediently while the woman carefully etches the garment up over her back.

I try not to wince: her back looks, somehow, even more staggeringly wasted than her front. In fact, her back looks hard and shell-like. Like a beetle's carapace. More bone ridges than any padding of normal flesh.

_The bones line her backside like tattoos._

_Inked starvation._

Even worse is the fact that with every breath she takes, her ribs become more delineated and darkened. The vertebrae themselves protrude sickeningly with yellow-green bruising overlap each bony nub. Even from where I stand, I can see that some parts of her back are bruised purple and brown.

Dr. Wallace makes some notes in her charts, then solidly asks, "Your back is very bruised, Dorothea. Can you tell me how that happened?"

The girl's eyes shift guiltily and she studies the blanket on the exam table. Pokes it with her finger. Tugs on a loose thread.

"Can you write down what happened to hurt your back like that? Can you write that down for me, Thea?," Dr. Wallace tries again, brisk now but not at all cold. Not cold and almost indifferent like Dr. Andrews had been.

Just - to the point.

"Did someone _hit_ you? Did someone hurt your back?"

Dorothea bites her lip again, shakes her head curtly.

Jane comes a little closer now, still seemingly off-put by the child's state of undress as much as her sickness. It's the reason he fetched her a female doctor in the first place, and has tried to reduce the child's sense of shame.

In many ways, I suspect he wants this exam to be over and done with as much as Thea does, herself.

He widens his eyes at Dr. Wallace impatiently, and the woman sighs, almost inaudibly.

"Well, her lungs sound remarkably clear. No infection, no rattling," Dr. Wallace says to me lightly, before removing her stethoscope. I nod in approval.

"So we're done with this part?," Jane asks almost gruffly now, before slowly bringing down the pajama top over the child's back as he had done with Dr. Andrews before.

Dr. Wallace nods in agreement, her eyes showing a brief but undeniable hue of empathy.

"For now," she relents, looking hesitant to mention anything further. "But we do need her to be seen by Child Welfare. _Psych eval_. And I will need to take some blood, to rule out any complications."

Jane doesn't seem to like that answer.

Not at all.

He barely _looks_ at the doctor.

"See that, honey? All done for now," Jane whispers, before tying the last cords that keep the gown closed into little ribbons.

The doctor bites her lip, then continues on. "Yes, _almost_ all done, Dorothea. You were a really brave girl. But I do have to take a little tiny blood test before I go, alright?"

Thea shifts about on the exam table, wringing her hands.

"And I still need you to answer me," Dr. Wallace starts cautiously, once the little girl is completely covered up - a baby blue hospital blanket covering her body further, as Jane helps wrap it over her shoulders.

"I need to know how you got all those bruises on your back. Can you tell me that?"

The girl looks like a trapped deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Jane exhales. Looks at me helplessly.

"I think I know," he near-whispers. "I think maybe it was the exercise, wasn't it, Thea?"

I can only watch - feeling out of my depth, dull and useless when the girl sucks her lip in between her bottom teeth, her eyes looking to me for assistance. She opens her mouth, then reevalautes.

A dip of her head. Up.

Repeated.

**_'Yes.'_**

"Sit ups?," Jane asks delicately, coming to crouch down low enough to catch Thea's eyes. "Something like that?"

Thea looks at Jane with an expression of perplexed cautiousness, her shoulders coming up to her ears. Then she looks back to me and I give her a smile, even though my face feels frozen and stiff.

_Even though my face feels like it is made out of granite._

She finally nods in admittance.

"You do a lot of exercise, don't you, Thea?," Jane asks just as easily, giving me a quick look. Not stumbling over the question. Not letting it be awkward.

Just a fact.

A Fact.

The little girl shrugs yet again, but the motion seems less natural this time. Less uninhibited.

She looks nervous. She looks like my brothers used to.

_Right before my dad would beat them black and blue with the belt._

"That's okay. You can tell us. No one is going to be angry with you," Jane says readily, giving an encouraging half smile of his own now. "I know you take gymnastics. And ballet. With Ms. Trudy. What else do you do? For exercise? Can you write it down here on this piece of paper for us?"

Thea licks her lips, seems to hesitate for a few seconds, and then holds the pad of loose-leaf against her lap. She writes for a few minutes then hands the paper back over to Jane, who takes it carefully. He reads it quickly, before he passes the note onto me.

His eyes look bitterly sad.

It reads:

_situps every night_

_and mornig_

_run_

_gymnestics_

_skip rop_

_balet_

_swim_

_bascetball_

_rollarscate_

_walk_

I feel something leaden suddenly fill my limbs.

Jane was right all along.

This child hasn't been deliberately starved by others.

Her sickness, even now.

_It's all been self imposed._

_There's no question about that.  
_

_**Not now.**  
_

* * *

**A/N:** writing ruts = no fun. Blargh.

Not happy with this chapter. But hopefully it tides some of you guys over.

(_Come back, writing muse, come back!_)


	31. Chapter 31

**Title - Little Stars - Part 31**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **re-watching season 4 episodes of TM on my PVR, and I have a few ficlet ideas I want to get underway. Which means I need to stick to a writing schedule, and keep to it. :)**  
**

* * *

**Jane's POV  
**

* * *

A man lingers about to the corner of my peripheral vision.

_Ahhh, whaddja know. _

_It's Dr. Andrews._

_Mr. Piss-Poor-Bed-Side._

I glance over to Lisbon - who hands me back the page of loose-leaf outlining Thea's primary exercises, and makes her way over to the doctor.

_Out of earshot. No doubt for Thea's benefit._

I watch, not even trying to hide my blatant interest in the on-goings between Lisbon and the stocky man, while Dr. Wallace brings over a wheelchair and addresses Thea.

"We're going to get you to a calmer space, out of the ER. How does that sound, Dorothea?"

Thea wrings her hands and keeps looking over to me as if she's in trouble. As if every change, or action, is one that is troublesome. As if she's being a_ bother._

And I also know she's worried about what she's just written on the paper. That the need to share her secret, at least partially, overtook her in that very minute, and now she's having serious reservations and anxiety because of it.

I try to put her mind at ease.

"You didn't say or do anything wrong, honey," I tell her softly. I pause, and try to think like Lisbon for a second. "Thank you for being so honest with us."

Her eyes meet mine. She bites her lip yet again.

"Sorry," she breathes. "Sorry."

"No - you don't have to say sorry. You _shouldn't_ be sorry. You've been answering all our questions like a pro. You've done a really good job. And there's absolutely nothing in the entire world that you've done wrong, alright? You need to believe that, cause it's true."

I can tell by the fresh awkwardness in her pose that she doesn't truly believe me. Not enough to be put at complete ease, and in the next moment her eyes flinch up and over to the burgeoning noise that's now coming from the nursing station.

I hear words a moment later. Strangled, angry words. Words like _"Niece!"_ and _"no right!"_

_Great._

**_Just freaking fantastic._**

"Thea - I'm going to go see what the bother is over there, okay? You'll be alright for a moment here with Dr. Wallace, won't you?"

Dr. Wallace, I'm sure, is trying very hard not to respond sarcastically at this point. But I could care less about Dr. Wallace's view of me at this point.

Thea finally nods.

"_Ah hum_," she says, before chewing her lip once more.

_Got to find a way to discourage her from doing that._

_In a few days her mouth will be bleeding as badly as her stomach._

I give her a too-perky smile. I _know_ it's too much. But I can't turn it off.

I'm exhausted. I feel like I'm buzzing about on fumes. No real substance.

And now that the primary stress of finding the girl has been lifted, I can feel the fatigue rear its head and stare me down like a devil-dog, waiting for me to fall.

**I yearn to sleep for 15 hours. 24 hours.  
**

**A week.  
**

_God, I so badly want to close my eyes._

_ Just white-noise._

_The black screen of rest._

_No panic. No nightmares._

_No horror._

**_Just rest. Truly rest.  
_**

"Alright. Good," I respond, after a lapse. "Yeah, I'm going to go see what's going on, and I'll be right back, honey."

I watch as Dr. Wallace helps lift the weak child into the chair. Thea pulls her little legs up into the seat, wrapping her arms around her torso.

* * *

The man surges forward, face red, expression ready to break.

I put out my arms to keep him at bay. He all but growls at me.

"And you are?," I test warily.

"Greg Ogilvie. I'm Thea's uncle!," he pants out, wiping at his eyes. "Agent Rigsby sent me a voice mail this morning. Told me where she was, that she's okay. So I'm here."

I let my mind back track and mentally scan the profile reports.

_'Okay' is not an apt description for Dorothea._

_Nothing about what's been done to her is even close to being okay._

_She's certainly not okay. Not even close.  
_

"You live in New York City?," I ask, cautiously. "But you've been staying in California for the last three weeks?"

Greg Ogilvie stares me down. "That's right. I've been staying in LA since I heard about Theye. No way was I going to sit around in New York, as if nothing was wrong. If they found her, I - I wanted to be here for her..."

I peek back in slight reservation only to see Thea now half sitting up in her wheelchair, much to the disagreement of the doctor who is trying to get her to follow directions and not balance precariously in the seat.

Finally, Thea catches sight of her Uncle and rises completely, her legs wavering as if she might just topple over from the surprise. Her expression at this point crumbles from dead-shocked to completely overwhelmed and she starts to cry, holding out her hands in a pleading gesture.

I step aside and Ogilvie jolts to the little girl - who is actually _sobbing_ now. When Greg gets to her, Thea wraps her hands around his body and he picks her up out of the wheelchair. She wipes at her eyes, and I know from personal experience that she's probably just made her sight all the more blurry.

"Theye," he chokes out, "Oh, Theye. My Skipper. _Hey, hey - shusssh_, Skipper. Come on baby. Please don't cry, Thea. I can't take it when you cry, Skip."

But she's not just crying. I can tell it's so much more than that. I can tell that she's trying not to _scream. _And she pushes her face into Greg Ogilvie's jacket to drown out the sound of her tears. Greg numbly grasps to get a better hold on her slight frame.

"God good, Theye. _You're skin and bones_, baby. Skin and bones!," the man manages to get out as Thea continues to cry. "You have to stop this, Thea! You've made yourself sick. Can't you see how sick you are?"

Lisbon is by my side in a flash. Luckily, she seems to know what to say even as I watch on, almost stupidly. Almost dazed.

_He knew._

_At least one other person knew she wasn't eating properly._

_At least one other adult suspected that some of her problems were self-harm._

It's then that I realize that I'm sweating. Profusely.

_My heart feels like it's trying to break out of my chest._

"Mr. Ogilvie, I really don't think now is the time to be addressing-," Lisbon begins delicately, her eyes trained on the child.

The man just bends forward, grasping onto Thea as if she's a doll.

"You promised me, Theye," Greg Ogilvie exclaims, while Lisbon slowly extricates an almost hysterical Thea away from her Uncle.

"Noooo!," the child screams, reaching out for her Uncle in alarm. "_Noooooo!"_

"Lisbon," I stress, brought back now to somewhat-functioning, "let him hold her. He's not scaring her. He's_ not. _It's okay."

Lisbon finally realizes her error and quickly passes Thea back to her relative.

"_Right._ But we are all going to keep things calm for her right now," she states slowly. "Now is not the time to discuss this issue with her, sir," she adds, as Greg finally seems to rouse and nods at Lisbon's words.

"Okay," he wheezes. "_Okay. _We won't talk about this now," he agrees, still maintaining eye contact with Thea, who looks downwards guiltily.

* * *

_We are currently situated on the fifth floor. _

_In the pediatrics unit._

_Thea is dozing against her Uncle._

_Her grasp on the man, even in sleep, is incredibly strong._

* * *

My first assessment of Greg Ogilvie is that he is somewhat of a mercurial sort, with a boisterous personality that kids love. An undeniably warm person.

_Certainly nothing like Thea's own so-called father._

I have also determined that Ogilvie is gay, and from slight tells I am fairly confident that he's currently in a committed relationship with his boyfriend of several years. That they probably share either a brown-house or some sort of apartment in the city, and have lived in a common law capacity for the last two to three years. He's also in his mid to late 30's, and I would guess he has a job in fashion, at least in some capacity. Seemingly cliche, though the case would be, I also suspect he's a fairly solid character. One not concerned with the superficial.

He does what he does because he's creative, not because he's caught up in artifice.

Greg Ogilvie shifts in his seat now, trying not to wake his niece and drawing me out of myself, effectively stopping my profiling.

"She looks like a skeleton," he offers, haunted. "I mean, she was bad at Christmas. But not this bad, you know?"

_ Ogilvie is involved in several humanitarian causes._

_And he has at least one cat. A Siamese._

_Or something more exotic.  
_

_But rescued.  
_

Most importantly of all, I can tell that Thea feels safe with this man.

_And that's enough to tell me everything I really need to know._

I pull up a plastic chair, and grab one for Lisbon, who gives me a look. Probably wants to know how to proceed. I decide to take the reigns.

"You've known Thea for some time now? Have you been a part of her life since the beginning of her adoption process?"

The light of the room has been reduced - with only the glow of a bedside table lamp to provide any illumination. Thea's hair has now dried, and her face is slowly softening in rest.

"I wanted to be there so much more for her. But Trice and I - we didn't see eye to eye on certain issues. Made visiting hard. I got out maybe three times a year to see them, and it was often tense. Even still, you have no idea how much this little kid has changed me. You have no _idea_."

Greg lets out a sigh. Runs his hands through his hair.

_I wait a few moments to see if he will continue._

"I can't believe she's _sleeping_," Greg states a moment later, only now just starting to come down from the near panicked episode of earlier. "She never has slept well."

"How long has she been underweight like this?," I ask last, keeping my voice to a low volume; just slightly above a whisper. "She's emaciated."_  
_

Ogilvie sighs. Takes longer this time to answer.

"She started to lose weight a couple years back. Kindergarten. In the fall. Her teacher said she wouldn't eat her lunch, just pecked at her snack. Would only drink juice. Trice started getting her those high calorie drinks, those Ensure things? Didn't do much good. No one could figure out why."

I look over at Lisbon, who looks ill.

_Kindergarten. _

_5 years old.  
_

_Her father must have been hurting her back then, too.  
_

_He probably started the moment..._

_he brought her into their house._

"You thought it was something more than just a bad stomach," I start again, and Greg gives us a look, shakes his head.

"I didn't know _what_ it was. I suspected a whole lot. But I didn't _know_."

Lisbon leans forward in her chair.

"Did you try talking to Thea about it?"

"I did. Sort of. I didn't want her to feel trapped by questions. She was only in first grade when I brought it up and she won't discuss it then. Couldn't discuss it. Wouldn't admit that anything was wrong. And Trice? Even more guarded than Thea, even though Theye was obviously suffering. Just looking at her, you could see it."

The man hesitates for a moment. Looks uncomfortable.

"So I spoke to Russell, and he assured me they'd take her in for more tests. Then next I hear, Trice is telling me that the doctors want to admit Thea to the hospital. That in those _few months she'd gotten so sick_...I honestly didn't know what to think. I felt like I had given her ideas though. Thea, I mean. By bringing it up. Made things worse, somehow. Put the idea in her mind."

"You thought it was deliberate. And you thought something was wrong, and by mentioning it, you felt as if you had given Thea ideas on how to get sicker?," Lisbon questions.

Greg gives a harsh, biting laugh.

"Pretty stupid, huh?"

"Not stupid. Understandable. Your sister was already critical of you for the fact that you are gay. She didn't condone..._what?_ The fact that you had a boyfriend? Then, on top of that, you were worried you had set into motion an eating disorder. Been the trigger."

"Jane!," Lisbon is now glaring at me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ogilvie. My partner has a rather floppy mouth som-"

"It's fine," Greg relents, holding one hand up in a gesture of acceptance. He seems to take a long time gathering his thoughts. I do note the look of slight acceptance on his face, and I know that he's suspected the same problems with his niece.

_Suspected that's _exactly_ what was going on._

But didn't know who to go to without the issue turning into yet another family war.

_Didn't want to lose the privilege of seeing his niece entirely._

"It's true, anyway. Tricia was trying to find her way - with religion. She wanted the best for Thea, and just didn't seem to think I factored into that equation. Dean - _certainly not_. Dean - he's my partner, I guess. He's never even been over, never seen her. But that's fine. That's _okay_ - I get it. I do. And I loved Tricia, anyway. I always will," he breathes out, before his eyes jolt on over to the child grasping at his shirt.

He lets his hand stroke her hair, and she turns into the motion.

"She doesn't know yet?," he whispers to me, and I don't know how to verbally respond. "About Trice, and Russell?"

Lisbon comes to my rescue.

"No, sir. She doesn't. Not as far as we can tell. It hasn't been discussed with her by anyone on my team, or any hospital staff, so the assumption right now is that she still needs to be told."

Greg swallows. He looks distraught.

"I don't know how to tell her something like that. How do I talk about something so horrific with a little girl? She's a baby. _How do I start_?"

His amber eyes are wide and searching. Frightened.

"Thea needs to see a pediatric psychiatrist, for starter's. They're going to talk to her first. They'll then decide the best method of proceeding. At this point, it may not even fall to you," Lisbon offers gently. "You might not even have to break it to her. They might leave that to someone else. A professional."

Thea shifts somewhat in sleep, her grasp still white-knuckled.

"So a stranger will tell her? And she'll be all alone?"

I feel cool fingertips pitter-patter against my skull. Gloss over my ears. Stroke my temples.

"With people she barely knows? No. I can't do that to her. _I can't."_

I rub my eyes to push away the sensation. The sensoral awareness of something being_ off. _

The fact that I have been seeing flashes and hearing calls -_ impossible things_ - for this entire case.

"Mr. Jane?," a man asks. "Are you alright?"

I breathe out that _I'm fine. _That I need a sip of _water. 'Just a little dizzy.'_

I feel Lisbon's hands at the small of my back as I stand. Darkness edges at the corners of my vision._  
_

And then I feel her. Those child hand covering up my eyes.

.

.

.

.

.

_'KeEp yOUr eyeS shuT, DadDY!_

_I hAVe a SurpRise fOr YoU!'_

.

.

.

.

**I push away a sudden need to sick up.**

* * *

"Jane - _dammit_ - talk to me!"

lisbon is talking to ogilvie.

**Everything is too bright, and it's hard to see.**

**The light, interspersed with dark cut outs of blackness.**

**My heart won't slow down.**

**And - God! - I want to throw up.**

**I NEED to throw up.  
**

lisbon's asking for him to watch me, now.

a doctor?, she's asking.

'should i get a doctor, jane?'

yes.

i need a doctor.

something is very wrong and i need a doctor.

someone to stop the noise in my head.

* * *

_**/my daughter screams/**_

**"Jane?," **and I know Lisbon is panicked. Even with my eyes closed, I know she's starting to look frantic. Trying to keep Ogilvie calm. Trying to keep me from losing it. More so.

_"I'm sorry," I breathe. "I don't feel-"  
_

**"Jane. Please tell me what's wrong?"**

But I can't make it stop.

"I don't feel very well. Sick to my stomach," I pant. "I think I need a doctor now."

* * *

_Sophie had asked me to tell her._

_To tell her._

_To DESCRIBE._

_And I cried._

_I screamed at her. _

**_She was coated in red._**

_Eyes closed. _

_A flapping mouth._

_Man-made._

_Below her real one._

The cut mark in Charley's throat was so huge, it took both my hands to keep it taut against her body. To keep that flap of skin from opening up.

_A bright red scream all throughout her room. _

_All over her bed, her toy box._

_All over Gippy-Gee._

_Red John had dragged her over her Princess Paulette floor mat. _

_Winding streets of blood _

_morbid curlicue  
_

_/**had she been alive then?**_

**_you can never know  
_**

**_you will never know how she died  
_**

**_you will never know if she cried for you  
_**

* * *

"Mr. Jane?," and the voice sounds familiar.

The voice sounds almost like Sophie's. Except it can't be.

_It can't be._

_Sophie was 9 years ago.  
_

_And then, later, Sophie was three years ago.  
_

_Not now.  
_

"I want you to lie back on the table. I'm going to take some blood. We're going to see what's going on with you," the voice informs me.

_That monster had sat her at the play table. _

_turned off her night light_

forced her to die in the **dark**

When the needle bites, it barely hurts.

It feels hot, and slightly stings.

And all I can think is, _'good.'_**  
**

* * *

"What's wrong with him?"

Lisbon's voice, and I try to open my eyes, but everything is so bright.

"My guess, right now? Exhaustion, coupled with some sort of infection. He has a fever. Has he had it long?"

I could only see her outline...

_because of the moonlight._

_She looks like a walking doll  
_

_3 feet 5 inches, golden curls  
_

**the curls were damp_  
_**

**the curls were dark**

"He was sick a few weeks back. With a fever. It went away after a few days, but he's been run down this entire case. He hasn't...looked well, to me. But he wanted to wait it out. Get through the case."_  
_

Her tea set.

Her head, slumped on the table.

Charlotte's eyes had still been open.

I had screamed._  
_

_PLEASEBABY  
_

_PLEASEWAKEUP  
_

"Lisbon," I choke out, and then I feel her hand against my temples a moment later.

I know it is Lisbon.

Because the hand feels warm.

Not cold as ice.

Not a ghost hand.

Not my daughter.

"Relax, Jane. Don't move. You've collapsed. Let your heart rate normalize...don't try to sit up. You have an IV in your arm."

_I have no memory of collapsing. _

_But I must have.  
_

I've just gotten stuck in a too-bright world. It's hard to think right now. And now, little hands are stroking the inside of my throat, my guts, playing around in my stomach. Not letting me forget.

"Lisbon, I'm going to be sick. I think I'm going to throw up."

And then, suddenly, the coolness of a metal trashcan is beneath my chin and I'm bringing up ropes of bile and the acrid tang of water that's full of gastric acid but not much else. I heave a few more times, then pucker my mouth against the assault. The taste is awful.

A small voice in my mind - my own, but distant and young - is asking for some tea. Saying that tea would make everything so much better.

_'Tea for Prince Patrick!,' someone chimes in.  
_

_A voice I know. Somehow.  
_

I don't vocalize the request.

Lisbon's hands have left my temple and have now found a high section of my stomach to stroke in barely-there increments, trying to quell the rip-tide need to vomit yet again. Even though there is nothing left in my stomach. I'm pretty much sure of that.

"Feel a little less nauseous now?," she asks, right on schedule. The maglev trains in Germany don't run as predictably as Lisbon operates.

But I like that about her. Her emotional solidity. I like that.

It soothes me.

"I feel-," but I don't finish my sentence. My heart is pounding so fast, and my head feels like an egg. Cracked apart.

The dizziness overtakes me and I let my eyes close.

* * *

**A/N:** I've had this kicking around on my computer for awhile now, and I have been busy - and then sick. So I decided to post what I have now, considering it might be a few extra days before I finish up the rest.

Next chapter: everyone gets to find out what's wrong with Jane. What do you think it is? (No, not a classic fever or flu). Thea also gets ready to move back to New York. Grace temporarily takes guardianship of Chicory.


	32. Chapter 32

**Title - Little Stars - Part 32**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: **re-watching season 4 episodes of TM on my PVR, and I have a few ficlet ideas I want to get underway. Which means I need to stick to a writing schedule, and keep to it, so I can finish all of my longstanding WIP's. :)**  
**

* * *

**Lisbon's POV  
**

* * *

Jane's eyes look incredibly swollen. Still bruised looking, but now puffy in addition.

I can't help but think of my Grandmother Lillian, who was bloated and sick on steroids before she died.

I make a mental note to ask Jane's doctor what is causing this fresh swelling. It seems to have coincided with his IV, and it concerns me.

Curled up in the thin, white hospital blanket - he looks so frail.

_So able to be broken._

"Agent Lisbon?," Dr. Guthrie interrupts my thoughts. Almost tentatively.

Dr. Guthrie is a man of medium height with sparse blonde hair and gentle features. He seems more poet-like than doctor while he fiddles about with the thin gold frame of his glasses, and I can only hope that his complete lack of ego will be sufficient to keep Jane in check (and respectfully obedient, once he does wake up).

"We have your partner's lab work back now. If you'd like, as his designated emergency contact, I can go over the results with you. Explain a little more about what's going on in case he wakes up suddenly and is confused. We want to keep his stress down."

I look back to Jane.

_Yeah. _

_He's out like a light._

* * *

Dr. Guthrie opens up a door and flicks on a light to the office. Thankfully, the bulbs that are used here are incandescent, not fluorescent. That helps me a great deal; the combination of worry and a sleep deprived state only slightly less extreme than Jane's own has got me feeling spacey.

I take a seat, then lean forward, scared at what I'm about to hear. I've never liked hospitals, even when my mom was alive - a bustling nurse. A helper. A healer. Even then hospitals unnerved me. Got under my skin.

**_More so when someone I care about is injured, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it._**

I decide to channel my restless anxiety into something familiar in the hopes that the activity will soothe me, and immediately order my thoughts into questions that I can fire at the doctor.

_Well, perhaps not '_fire.'

_Respectfully... pose._

"What's wrong with him?"

Guthrie gives me a look, then deposits Jane's medical file onto the table. He finally takes off his glasses and plays with the rims.

_My brother Tommy used to chew the mechanical pencils from his stationary bag _

_until his baby teeth indentations would scour every single item_

_Gabbie used to order his books in alphabetical order when scared or nervous _

_like when Dad was late coming home _

_or when Dad came home too early _

_or when Dad was too quiet _

I channeled my anxiety and tried to make myself useful.

Even when my kid brothers were so hungry that they'd look gaunt, and weak, and my damn Lisbon-pride kept me from going to my high school counselor and fessing up about every awful thing that was happening at home... even _then_ I'd keep it together. For them. Because I knew we couldn't afford to be split up.

I would find something I could cook up from just about _nothing_ - be it a tin of soup, half a box of spaghetti pasta, and the remnant left overs of whatever mayonnaise was still clinging to the inside of the container.

I'd make something out of almost nothing, and after awhile I got so good at making meals from bits that otherwise wouldn't feed a mouse that my brothers never felt deprived.

It became a game to them.

Like a magical sister, making something out of air. Like a character from Stone Soup, creating a meal from little more than a stone ("_Look, Tommy! Eeyore made her creamy tom-to pasta! You love Eeyore's pasta!_")

"Agent Lisbon? Do you know if Mr. Jane has a history of heart problems?"

_Grandma Lillian._

_Puffy legs._

_Grandma Lily, with her heart that wouldn't beat._

_A little watchmaker's contraption ticking away._

_But never very well._

I push back against the desk, suddenly feeling alarmed. Suddenly thinking of Grandma Lily, and how she'd make me oatmeal raisin cookies when I was a little girl, and how I always, _always_ knew that mom's death was what finally got Grandma Lily and broke her heart even though everyone else told me otherwise.

Because I knew how strong she was.

How much more life she would have had in her being; puffy legs and COPD, aside.

How much mom's death had ruined her.

_Ruined us all._

But mom died. A drunk driver smashed into our Volvo on her way home from her hospital shift, and mom's head hit the dash.

A little egg. Cracked. Like all the little eggs that crack.

And then, right after mom, it was Grandma Lily with her broken heart. Her lips artificially tinted rose in the casket. Looking almost healthier in death.

Even so, they couldn't get the puffiness out of her.

"Agent Lisbon? I understand you are very concerned right now, but I need to know if Mr. Jane has a documented history of heart problems or a history of heart treatments that he's shared with you? I was not able to find anything in his files."

I want to ignore the doctor. I want to pretend that if I don't hear the questions, that Jane is fine. That there is no reality where he's sick.

Maybe severely sick.

"Heart problems? _No._ No, Ja- Mr. Jane has always been extremely...healthy. I mean, he rarely gets sick. He's never been sick before this case as far as I know. Not that I have seen. I'm sure he must have been sick at some point in his-"

Shut up. _STOP rambling._

I stop, take a deep breath. Cup left hand in right. Go through the motions.

**_A 1, 2, 3._**

**_1, 2, 3._**

**_Routines._**

**_Mechanized ballet rotations._**

**_Me, 6 years old, so terribly bored. Not a dancer. Just counting._**

**_Just counting down the seconds until I could leave._ **

I trace the slight line of a scar that runs along my wrist from where I scaled a barbed wire fence as a teen on a dare (and plucked myself).

Guthrie sighs.

"Does he have a history of drug abuse, Agent Lisbon?"

I suddenly am lost. Feel prickles of fear edge at the corner of my mind.

Drug use? Jane?

"What? _Drug abuse?_ Like prescription drugs? No. No history. Absolutely nothing."

_But you're not certain about that, are you Teresa?_

_He attempted suicide. You know he did that._

_You know he CUT._

_You know that he was so heart sick that he wanted to be GONE._

_Dead and Gone._

So who knows what Jane may have taken in a moment of depression?

Who knows how long his nihilistic thoughts swirled and attacked him...

**_Struck at his mind over and over again, like starving crows feeding on a dying pigeon?_**

Guthrie doesn't look satisfied with my response.

"What's going on here?," I ask in one long, drawn out shake of breath.

The doctor pulls open Jane's file, then hands forward a few relevant file notes.

"Mr. Jane is extremely sick. He is suffering from a condition called Infectious Endocarditis. It's a condition that - in his case - is caused by a germ called _Streptococcus viridans. _That's according to our blood work. Other pre-existing conditions can increase the likelihood for Endocarditis occurring, but typically it develops in children or in adults who have become very run down, and especially those that already have weakened hearts, congenitally or for other reasons, such as previous trauma to the heart-"

Previous trauma to the heart?

_His heart was **broken.**_

_**Does that count?  
**_

_**Does heart break count?  
**_

_/His file said he screamed. Screamed, possibly for hours. Until the cops came and they sedated him./_

"-drug abuse, or previous and untreated infection. Often through childhood infections actually, since the heart muscles are still forming and damage can occur very quickly in young children, but any serious strep infection that spreads to the heart can cause valve weakness like what I'm seeing in Mr. Jane. So, truthfully, he could be sick right now for any number of potential reasons."

Like a bad dream, I piece it together.

_Jane, telling me about his mother, his father._

_A terrible bout of fever at four that almost killed him._

"He was very sick once as a little boy," I supply at long last. "Maybe more than once, I don't know. His parents weren't very - diligent - with watching out for his best interests when he was a child, I don't think. But he told me about a time when he was four years old. _About four._ With a high fever. As far as I know he wasn't taken to the hospital at all. He was given some sort of medicinal syrup. His dad burned his toys."

Dr. Guthrie fiddles with the paper, chews on his lip.

Probably wishes he could talk directly to Jane. Probably feels awkward talking to _me about this. _I can tell he's that sort of doctor; honest, discrete, sensitive to people's emotions, and most of all... sensitive to their need for privacy.

All the same, Jane is sick as a dog, and not likely to wake up in the next few hours. If I can provide information that will help Dr. Guthrie in his treatment, I will do so.

Guilt can take a back seat where Jane's life is concerned.

"Scarlet fever?," Guthrie finally hypothesizes.

I nod, numbly.

"I believe so, yes."

"Alright, well - at this time I would assert that there is a great possibility that Mr. Jane _did_ experience complications from being so sick as a small child. Usually this condition - Endocarditis - affects those with weakened heart valves, and given your responses to my other questions, I'm going to pose the question of potential heart trouble originating from childhood infection to Mr. Jane when he awakes."

I stifle a retort, my own heart now racing.

The doctor seems to pick up on my reservations.

"Agent Lisbon?"

_God. _

_How do I explain that it's really not a good idea to mention Jane's childhood to this man?_

_How do I get this doctor to avoid the topic entirely?  
_

_Without revealing even more concealed traumas?  
_

How do I provide this information and express the very likely truth that referencing this time in my best friend's life could cause him considerably_ more_ stress?

_How do I protect Jane physically, without betraying him emotionally?_

"Agent?"

I look up awkwardly, never feeling so lost.

Because normally I know how to proceed.

Normally, even when things are difficult or hard to speak about - I know what I need to do. What I believe, ethically, I should do.

But this is different. Jane spoke to me.

_He didn't want to._

**_He had to._**

_He had to get it out. What happened to him._

There's no way I can break his confidence.

Not given how difficult it must have been for him to talk about his past in the first place.

I decide to go for a middle ground. **Not a lie, not really.**

_Just a very modest retelling of the truth._

"Agent - your help here is extremely vital. Please don't underestimate that. If Mr. Jane has a heart weakness that is decades old, and has been previously untreated - it may change how I need to proceed with his treatment now. Typically, people with this condition - _those who go for as long as Mr. Jane has gone without diagnosis_ - would have had to avoid almost all doctor's exams and visits. Would Patrick have been able to work for the CBI without some sort of annual health check up?"

I feel a slight anger pulse throughout my body knowing where this is going.

**_Damn it Jane._**

**_Damn your  
_**

_**carelessness.**  
_

_When it comes to yourself.  
_

_Your person.  
_

_Your life.  
_

"No. All Agents, or Consultants as the case may be here, have to undergo a minimal health exam. Nothing necessarily invasive. But it's a quick health work up usually conducted every September."

Guthrie suddenly seems less timid; less like a poet, and more like a doctor.

"Agent Lisbon. A weak heart of this magnitude would show up on almost any exam. Any comprehensive exam, that is."

I have no idea what to say.

Unless Jane's doctored evidence. Unless Jane has manipulated what's in his file.

_Oh god, if he's done that... __I'll strangle him!_

_If he's been running around, acting like he's healthier than a horse,_

_while napping all day because he has a heart that's weak_

_weaker than my Grandmother's was...  
_

**I don't know what I'll do.**_  
_

Guthrie gets up abruptly, gives me a sad look. Or maybe it's just an _'I pity you, and your poor ability to effectively care for those under your leadership'_ look.

"Well, at this point I'm not sure how Mr. Jane could have gone so long without proper care if he _did_ have a pre-existing heart condition. It's possible this is a relatively new development due to a more recent bout with infection. I don't want to jump to conclusions here. But all I know right now is that Mr. Jane's heart is not pumping blood as effectively as it should be. He definitely has a heart murmur - which, by itself, doesn't necessarily mean he can't work in a diminished capacity so long as he isn't doing a lot of physical work-"

_Physical work?_

The idea almost makes me laugh.

Especially since Jane tries his best to cat nap during the day...he alw-

**_Oh God. _**

**_He's _always_ tired._**

**_He's probably been tired for a long time. _**

_And I just assumed he was goofing off. _

I never once asked him if he felt okay.

If he was okay.

Physically.**  
**

**/what would he say? would he have told me?  
**

**would he have lied? **

**_wouldn't_ he have?/  
**

The guilt is suddenly overwhelming.

_Little Jane. _

_Little four year old Jane. _

_A little boy._

**Someone hurt him like-  
**

_/like thea. just like that.  
_

_and you've been pushing it out of your mind ever since he told you,  
_

_not wanting to feel the weight of his admission  
_

_not wanting to feel the clawing, sickening ache  
_

_for him/_**  
**

_**But I should have taken care of him, now.** _

_Especially since I _knew_ he wasn't taking care of himself._

_His magician tricks, and false smiles, and all along_

**_/that pain, so neatly hidden beneath artifice_**

**_a near-genius IQ, and manipulation_**

**_but he's not okay/_**

_He's never been okay._

_Not in all the time __I've known him._

* * *

"How bad is this?," I finally manage to get out.

"Well, it's tricky. Endocarditis isn't like having a stomach bug, or even developing appendicitis. Even with active treatment, it is a very dangerous and oftentimes life threatening condition."

"What are the signs of Endocarditis?," I ask sickly.

I feel so ill.

"I mean, I - _if it's recent_, if it has been caught early, that would be a lot better for him and for his recovery, wouldn't it? So how do we know how far along this is? How advanced?"

The doctor mentally reads off the symptoms as if reading from a check-list.

I suddenly realize how tired _he_ looks, additionally.

"Chills, excessive sweating, fatigue, joint pain. Those are usually the first symptoms. Then they progress to include a low level fever that does not abate for weeks, sometimes even months - followed by night sweats, paleness, and weight loss. The more advanced signs can include blood in the urine, neurological disturbances such as auditory hallucinations, an enlarged spleen, and what we can call "splinter hemorrhages" - which are usually little black marks on the ends of the fingertips that resemble splinters, but which are actually caused by the capillaries rupturing and leaking blood into the neighboring tissue. I've checked. Mr. Jane already has the later two symptoms. "

I blink back tears, surprising myself. Because that rarely happens. I rarely _cry_ anymore.

I study a poster above Dr. Guthrie's head. A poster about PNEUMONIA: WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW!

_If only Jane had pneumonia..._

"He's going to be okay, though, isn't he? With treatment - he's going to be fine?"_  
_

Guthrie holds up his hands, then stills. Reevaluates what he was going to say. I can tell.

"We're...we're going to do everything we can to get him as healthy as we can. But he's sick, Agent. Very sick. He's going to have to be hospitalized for awhile."

I let out a breath.

"Whatever he needs," I whisper.

* * *

His room is white – almost an electric brightness – but the incandescents are dimmed.

The walls are bare. No flowers, no plants, no cards. I've only just found out what's wrong with him, but I should get something for his room.

I listen to his light, rapid breaths. Watch his chest rise and fall. See him swallow, and fidget in his sleep. I watch, and I listen, and I try to be lulled into a type of calmness by the drizzling of a gentle rain outside.

And then, like a thunderbolt, a white corded shot to the brain - my voice, in my head:

**/i love you jane/oh god/ i love you/**

I blink back a sort of dismal heaviness when I recognize the feeling that accompanies the thoughts. The honesty of feeling. The presence of what it _means_. That feeling just skirting the periphery of friendship, but asking for something more. Asking me to consider the _possibility of something more._

And then I realize that voice terrifies me.

"Lisbon?!," I look up, hear the rushed voice - underlying anxiety.

It's Rigsby.

"I know - I know you want to stay with him until he wakes up, boss, but-"

I stand up, grab my jacket. Jane looks like he's pretty dead to the world. And the doctor mentioned the importance of rest with healing from Endocarditis. Even went so far as to put a low level amount of sedative into Jane's IV line.

"No, it's okay Rigs. What's going on?"

I follow him out of the hospital room and into the much more bright and bustling hallway.

"It's Thea - some psychiatrist or something was asking her questions. Made everyone leave. Grace and I hear this scream and suddenly there's blood running down Thea's arm! She did it to herself with a fork from her meal tray. Oh God boss, and then she-"

I can't think.

_I can't process this information._

It doesn't make any sense, but I walk faster to match the sense of urgency that I can feel coming from Rigsby. Thea's room is two floors down, and in another section of the clinic. A good 5, 6 minutes if we jog.

"Wayne - that makes no sense," I get out, sickly. Wondering if what he's saying could be true. Could possibly be true.

_This little kid had no scars on her arms or legs._

_Nothing indicating self harm of this nature._

"No, boss, I get it. But I saw her. She _stabbed_ herself with that utensil. Over and over again. Punctured the skin. Grace ran in, and managed to get the fork off her, and then Thea crawled under the bed. She was calmer with you, before. So I thought maybe you could get her out. And I know you wanted to stay with Jane, and God -_ I know everything is a mess_ - but she's not listening to anyone else."

"What the hell happened?," I ask, in dread. "What set her off?"

Rigsby holds his hands apart, and at an angle.

"I have no idea."

* * *

We get to the door of Thea's room, and her Uncle is sitting outside. Cho to his side. They both look wrecked - Cho, less demonstratively.

"Mr. Ogilvie?," I test, crouching down low enough to talk to him easily. "What happened?"

Poor man's been through a lot himself. He still lost his sister in a violent murder.

And it's _his_ beloved niece whose losing her mind.

Apparently.

_Imagine how you'd feel if Annie was hurting herself._

_Screaming and crying and you couldn't do anything to make it better..._

"I don't really know. The doctor went in. A psychiatrist. Said she needed to talk to Thea. Said it was routine. I was supposed to leave, so I came outside. Then about ten, fifteen minutes later - I hear this sobbing and the doctors voice, stressed, talking to Thea. Then a scream. So I go inside and Thea has a fork in her arm. In the flesh. And I see at least two other sets of puncture marks, and I see her pull it out and then drive it back into her arm. As hard as she can. Oh my god, _what's wrong with her?_"_  
_

I take a deep breath. Look him squarely in the eyes.

"She's been hurt. Very badly. And she has no conception of how to treat herself, now. She's - suffering."

Jane's words suddenly come back to me in a rush.

"And she's trying to communicate that suffering with her body, because she's scared to talk."

Greg Ogilvie winces, turns his hand over. Studies it.

"I don't know what to do," he croaks. "It's not normal - what she's doing. I don't know how I can take care of her. Make her healthy again. Little girls don't _do_ these kinds of things to themselves. She's so disturbed!"

I look into the room, through the glass inlay-ed window. I can see Grace, hunched down low by the bed. Obviously talking in low tones to the child.

"She is. Because she's been hurt very badly for a very long time. So I'm going to go in there and see if we can get her out from underneath the bed. Get someone to patch up her arm. And then we are going to talk to the doctor that was speaking with Thea. See if was can't figure out what set her off. What caused her to do this to herself."

Ogilvie nods gruffly. Doesn't say anything else.

Or maybe - he just can't.

* * *

The lights have been dimmed in the room. Similar to Jane's space. It makes sense. Harsh, glaring lights are a stress all their own.

I walk over to where Grace has crouched, and likewise do the same.

"I heard about what happened," I whisper softly to my youngest agent. "It's going to be okay, Grace. You'll see."

Grace lets out a shaky breath while my sight adjusts to the reduced light.

I, too, look for Thea's outline - then catch it: a small bundle of weight, curled in upon herself, cheek and face flush against the tiled floor. She's drawing some sort of invisible pattern with her uninjured arm. The other one - I can see - looks red and swollen, and the tiny black indention from each tine of the metal have left a small pattering blood trail. I can count a good five sets of stab marks, minimally, and feel sick. They aren't bleeding a lot, but the punctures look deep.

_That must have hurt like a bitch. _

_And what if there had been a knife with her meal tray?_

_A sharp one?_

_How badly would she have hurt herself then?_

_How much damage would she have inflicted upon herself?_

_Willingly? Before anyone could have stopped her?  
_

"Thea?," I rasp, and now can hear the dissociative off-key humming.

It's not any song that I recognize. In fact, it doesn't really sound like a song at all. Just random sounds. A white noise, of sorts. For some reason, the noise makes me feel even sicker. Even more concerned for this little girl's mind.

"Honey? I need you to come out from underneath there."

No reaction. Thea continues to 'draw' on the floor. Something with curly edges, as her finger is looping out over and over again.

_She's obviously trying to calm herself down._

I can't help but wonder what sort of fantasy world she's escaped into, now.

"Thea. I know the doctor said some things that must have upset y-"

Her facade cracks. Just a little bit. But _enough_. She pushes her face into the tile and her breath starts to accelerate.

"Thea? Can you come out from under there? You've hurt your arm. It needs to be bandaged up, sweetheart."

As if waking from a nightmare, she jostles, then pulls her bleeding arm back from her face and studies the puncture wounds as if transfixed. A finger comes out and touches the ruined skin.

"No pain," the little girl looks up at me. Meets my eyes. "They're not real," she breathes, as if in awe. "I made them up with my mind. I was sad."

I feel like I'm going to vomit.

"No, Thea. You really _did_ hurt yourself. I know you don't think that you have. But you did hurt yourself. I can see the cuts, sweetie. So can Grace. That's why she's upset. She's worried about you, Thea. She's sad that you're in so much pain. It makes me sad, too."

Grace wipes at her eyes. Thea continues to watch us both, as if uncertain of the honesty of my statements. She looks doubtful - and confused.

"Teresa?"

I sit up at slightly greater attention at the use of my name.

_At least she's talking again._

_She was almost mute earlier._

**Just keep her talking.**

"Hmm? What is it, honey?"

And now, just slightly - ever so slightly.

_Fear. She's afraid.  
_

"I don't know what's real right now."

When she speaks, I can see the empty pockets in her mouth where two, new adult front teeth have yet to descend.

My head suddenly feels foggy. Light. As if the blood supply has been turned off and I might pass out any second.

_Get her out of there, Teresa!_

"That must be very scary," I whisper back to the child.

She breaks eye contact suddenly, as if ashamed.

"Is that why I'm at the hospital?"

Grace catches my line of sight. Looks sick to her stomach. She probably is. I know I am.

"What do you mean, Thea?," Grace tries this time, her voice shaking. Just a bit.

Thea brushes one wound on her arm. I can already see purple bruising emerging from the sites of most damage.

"I don't think normal things. My feelings are wrong."

"Your feelings aren't wrong, Thea," I assert. "Nothing's wrong with _you_. I promise you that."

Thea shakes her head back and forth. In disagreement.

"No. I'm not good at loving. I can't do loving right. Everyone else can. But not me."

I feel something hot, and acidic, climb up my throat.

"What do you mean, Thea?," I finally manage to question - in what sounds almost like a normal tone.

"I heard her. My home doctor. With my Mommy. Mom took me."

Grace looks at me, alarmed. I hold up a hand. Gently.

"Who told you that you can't love properly, Thea?"

Thea stops her 'drawing'. Stares off into space. Dully.

"Daddy," the child breaths. "_Sometimes Daddy_-," she lets out a ragged breath. Can't proceed. Not with those thoughts. Those feelings.

"Teresa?," she asks again, at last.

I can barely hear that small voice over the pounding of my heart.

"Hmmm?," I prod, ever so softly. "What is it?"

My throat feels parched. Cotton-baton dry.

"Sometimes I want to make Daddy all burny. With fire. I want to hurt him. Make all his blood come outside his body. With a knife. Over and over. Make him stop breathing. Make him die. Go all blue and black and die and go into the ground."

She recounts what must be, I suspect, her most violent fantasy with a vague sense of unease. As if it's evidence that _she's_ wrong.

_But I remember at 13, 14 - wanting to hurt my dad._

_After he'd beaten one of my little brothers. _

_After he'd broken my wrist. _

_I had wanted to punch him, and scream at him. _

_Make him feel just an ounce of the pain he had made us feel._

_Make him feel the fear.  
_

_The shame.  
_

_The sense of being worthless.  
_

_So worthless that he thought it perfectly fine to hit us.  
_

_I wanted him to have just a taste of it.  
_

_And he had never raped me. _

_So how much more would I have thought about hurting him _

_if he had done that to me?_

_Or to James, or Gabbie, or Tommy?  
_

_Wouldn't I have wanted him dead, too?  
_

_If he had covered up my mouth with his hand  
_

_and pushed himself into my body?  
_

_Silenced my screams with his mouth?  
_

**Yes.**

**I would have wanted to kill him.**

And I would have hated myself for the rage. Just like this little girl. But I also would have known it was wrong. I knew the physical abuse alone was wrong. I always did. I just rationalized it. I avoided the subject. I repressed my feelings.

Thea, on the other hand, has been told that she was being shown 'love' every time her father hurt her.

_Every time he attacked her. _She was told that every time her father raped her, he was loving her. She was told that her fear and anger and grief were abnormal. Evidence that she couldn't _love_ others.

Thea pulls her knees up to her chest. Wraps her arms around her legs. Her breathing is much too rapid.

"I'm all wrong inside. Rotten. I can only feel bad things," she admits at last.

Then, before I can truly comprehend what is happening: Crying. Soft, concealed gasping. But crying all the same. I push down against the lump in my throat.

"Thea - I know you feel bad inside. But you're not bad. Or rotten. You're good. Bad things happened to you though, didn't they? Horrible things? Things your daddy told you never to talk about?"

Grace looks almost frantic now.

"Boss, I don't think-"

I quiet her with a nod.

"_I know_," I hiss, "_we just have to get her out from there._"

When I look up, I can see a couple nurses who have now come into the room. One is holding a needle.

_If Thea sees that, she's going to freak out._

"Put that away," I order the nurse quietly, who bristles at my command as if affronted. "She's scared. Just scared," I add in mellower tones, a moment later.

"She's hurt herself, Agent. Deliberately. She needs to be sedated," the nurse responds in equally hushed tones, her eyes darting to the bed as Thea continues to cry.

"No. She needs to have her arm looked at. And then she needs to talk."

I read the nurses tag. _Emily_. Then I stand up slowly.

"Look, Emily. She's a highly traumatized seven year old. Yes, she's hurt herself. But she doesn't want to hurt anyone else. She's calming down now, and talking. I need to know that when she does come out from underneath there, that she's not going to be shut down."

Emily wavers.

"Please. Let us try to talk to her first. If it gets out of control, fine. But please let her talk. She's trying to explain what happened to make her do this, and that's something she needs to talk about."

The nurse hesitates.

"Alright. You get her out of there, and you get her talking - fine. But if she tries to hurt herself again, or anyone else-"

I nod, placated.

"Absolutely. I understand."

* * *

It takes almost another quarter hour before Thea slowly skirts out from beneath the bed.

She sits up - wobbly, disoriented, her hair messily dancing about her head. Tear track marks have cleansed small rivulet patches on her skin.

_This little kid needs a bath. She's filthy from the forest._

Finally she comes to sit cross legged, clutching her bad arm against her chest. Her Uncle slowly approaches - his face white and shocked. Completely overwhelmed.

"Thea...," he trails off, anxiously. Thea quickly backs up against the wall, and closes her eyes as if she's going to be slapped.

_But that doesn't fit. _

_Jane was confident that she wasn't physically abused. _

_So why this response, now?  
_

_It doesn't make any sense.  
_

I reach for her small body gingerly and she tucks her head against her chest, letting her bad arm hang outwards._  
_

"I'm sorry, Uncle Greg! I'm sorry," she pants, refusing to meet all eye contact whatsoever. "Please don't be mad!"

I slowly pick her small bulk up off the floor, and cradle her against my side.

"You don't have to say sorry," I inform her and slowly walk us back to the bed, sitting down myself, with her small body coming to rest against my side. "We just have to get your arm looked at and all bandaged up, okay? It won't hurt."

Thea slowly opens her eyes at that, and focuses her sight on her Uncle, whose brought a chair from the outer wall over to rest a few paces from the bed so that he can talk to his niece. He runs his hands through his hair.

At last he speaks.

"Can you tell me why you did this to yourself, Thea?"

Thea bites her lip, while the nurse takes her arm and slowly cleanses it with some cotton pads and sanitizer. The child doesn't even wince when the alcohol makes direct contact with her broken flesh. Emily frowns but says nothing. Instead, she gets some polysporn and white gauze and begins to slowly wrap up the small limb.

"I don't know," she admits.

Her Uncle doesn't look placated.

"You don't know?," he repeats in confusion. Dumbly. "Thea, come on - it's just me. Uncle Greg. You can tell me why you did that. I need to know, but I won't get angry. I promise. Nothing you tell me will make me get angry. Not at you. Alright?"

Thea leans back against the wall.

"I don't want to talk anymore. Not about daddy. Never again about daddy," she wheezes.

_Obviously the doctor had been pressing her about her father. _

_Obviously that's what set her off. Caused her to hurt herself._

"Okay," her Uncle finally relents, and I can understand why. Just the expression on the child's face looks as if the questions themselves are a type of torture for her. "I won't make you talk about it. You can talk about it only when you need to, though, alright? _Alright_?," and he picks her up. It's so easy to do, as she's so compact, so light.

And so much in need of love. Real love.

"Can we head down to the cafeteria?," Ogilvie finally asks the nurse, who is now standing about awkwardly. "I don't want anyone else talking to her about what's happened. Not alone. But she needs to eat something. Maybe get a fresh breath of air outside. Pick up something from the store for her."

Emily hesitates.

"I'll clear it with her doctor, and I'll be right back."

The middle aged nurse departs. The man turns to me, and Grace.

"You both look as exhausted as I feel. If this is a go, do you want to accompany us to the restaurant? Get some coffee? Something more nutritious?"

Greg is rubbing Thea's back in small circles. I doubt he realizes he's even doing it. Even more remarkable is the fact that she's not shying away from his touch.

_She must trust this man._

_Implicitly._

I look to Grace, uncertain as to whether or not we can afford to accept the offer.

"I have to head back, sir. Check in on-"

"Your friend," he admonishes himself, lightly. "Of course! I'm so sorry. Just - so much on my mind. I'm sorry. How's Mr. Jane doing?," Greg asks in concern, moving Thea across his side to hold her at his other hip and balance the weight. The words, if not the motion itself, causes Thea to look up sharply.

"Is Patrick sick?," she asks, worriedly - her eyes moving rapidly from her Uncle's face, to mine.

Something in me softens and recedes. Some fear - for her - relinquishes control.

_She's going to get over this._

_She's gong to be okay. _

_It's not going to be easy  
_

_and it's not going to be quick  
_

_but it's possible.  
_

I can only wonder how the situation must have looked to Thea when Jane passed out. I look to Grace - who still hasn't been filled in on the details - and I decide to give an abbreviated version. For everyone's sake.

"Yes, honey. Patrick is sick right now. Very sick."

She squishes her face into an expression that makes me think she's just eaten something sour.

_Empathy._

_She certainly has no problems with empathizing.  
_

"His heart has a line in it," she nods, seriously. "A little line. Abariel told me," she whispers. "Bean told me that he cries at night sometimes and kisses the pictures and it makes her want to cry, too, and Abariel told me that his heart is sick."

Greg looks alarmed, but reigns it in well. For that, I'm impressed. I have no idea if he's heard about Thea's delusions, or if he's just starting to suspect what Thea's mom had been discovering over the last several months prior to her death.

"Honey, we don't make up stories like this when people are hurt," he says shakily, with as much authority as he can muster. "We don't talk about Abariel when things are serious, do we?"

_But she knows something._

_She knows _something_ is wrong with Jane's heart._

"I'm not making up stories," she says solemnly, almost nervously. Afraid to be rebuked. "Abariel talks to me. Tells me things. In my mind. Told me to take Chicory outside to go potty. Told me to tell the lady my name."

Grace's eyes look owlish.

"Told me that Patrick's heart has a little line in it now. A crack. A crack all the way through. It's been in his heart for a long time. Longer than me. Longer than that."

_a long time._

_a long time._

_longer than me._

**Angela and Charlotte Jane were murdered more than eight years ago.**

_longer than that._

"A crack?," I ask, before I can stop myself.

"Mmm," Thea nods. "Yes. Where it broke. Where his heart broke and is trying to cover back up. But it still hurts him. Sometimes, it still makes him cry."

Grace stands up, unsteadily.

"Excuse me boss," she drones, "I - I am going to let Rigsby know-," but she doesn't finish the sentence. Just leaves in a rush.

I wonder if she feels as cold as I do. As cold as Jane does.

* * *

I check in with Jane's doctor. Jane's still out of it, so I stop by his bedside briefly. Glance around. Realize I'm alone. Hear Thea's voice in my mind-

_'a crack. where it broke. _

_where his heart broke.'_

I quickly kiss Jane on the cheek, and fight down a raw form of affection so intense that I close my eyes and steady my breathing. Suddenly, alarmingly - unexpectedly - I have the urge to kiss Jane's lips.

And, if I'm honest with myself-

Really honest-

_I don't just want to touch his lips._

_I want to make contact._

_Full contact. _

_Deeply._

I back away, as if stung by a wasp.

The feelings are not entirely new. They certainly don't _feel_ new. Now that I'm experiencing them.

But they are stronger now. Undeniable in what they represent.

And the fact that they are not new, but feel like such a new idea...

**I don't want to feel like this.**

_Jane is your best friend.  
_

_Your his best friend.  
_

_He has no such feelings for you  
_

_Other than friendship._

I don't want to feel out of control like this. Not now.

_What the hell is going on with you, Teresa?_

I turn from Jane's room and leave abruptly, almost knocking Cho over in my haste.

"You okay, boss?," Cho tests sharply, his coffee sloshing to the side. He wipes at the edge of his wet skin with his jacket. "Lisbon?"_  
_

He must have just come up to check on Jane, too.

"I'm fine. Just- yeah, coffee. I'm getting a coffee. I'll be back in a bit."

I ignore his thoughtful look. I ignore the look on his face that makes me feel as if he can suddenly do what _Jane always does_.

As if he can read minds.

* * *

Instead of facing Jane - or Cho, or the others - I meander down to the basement. To the Buhler Cafeteria. Wind myself around dozens of circular rose and plum colored plastic coated tables. Past honeycomb yellow walls, and blue and red plastic trays that dot the landscape.

I catch sight of the left overs from various meals. Some sort of modestly touched cutlet on one table, swimming in gravy. Those cubed hospital carrots on several plates. Pale peas, almost anemic. Opened paper cartons of whole milk. A turned over, but empty, bottle of Pepsi Max. Saran wrap, and peanut butter and marshmallow dessert, in a clump in a soup dish.

Walking to the silver lined station of patrons, all also carrying trays of red or blue with an assortment of food, I head to a food station where an overweight woman in white starched clothes and a hair net is serving food.

"And for you?," she asks pleasantly.

I study the menu board. Decide to go with comfort food, my waistline be damned.

"Uh, I'll get a large coffee. With powdered creamer, not milk, if possible. And a large french fries. Gravy."

The woman nods, then assembles my food and passes everything back to me. I mutter a thank you, then make my way over to the take out line, and pay with debit. I continue walking about with my tray, my eyes scanning for the child and her Uncle. Finally, I settle on the pair of them and approach cautiously.

Greg Ogilvie looks up and gives me a slight smile. Encouraging me to come over. I do so, tentatively. Not wanting to intrude if he's having a pleasant moment with his niece.

"Agent Lisbon - please feel free to join us."

I sit down rigidly, still feeling out of place despite the welcome. Unwrapping my paper wrapped fork, I let my gaze dart over to Thea.

Her Uncle - or someone else - has washed her face, and her hair has been wet down somewhat and brushed back into a little bun. She looks much tidier and composed.

It's...cute. And probably familiar to her, given her ballet photos.

"Hey Thea," I say softly, studying her tray.

It's lined with food. Cherry tomatoes and carrots with cream sauce in a dipping dish. A slice of cheese pizza. A whole grain muffin with raisins and oats. A peanut butter square. A fruit smoothie. A little tin of Clamato tomato juice.

Ogilvie has obviously tried to include a mixture of higher calorie foods and also nutritious foods.

All food that can be eaten with her hands.

And _none_ of it looks touched.

"Wow. That looks like a great lunch, there, Thea. Lots of choices. I used to love those peanut butter treats when I was a kid."

Thea studies the dessert, looks back to me.

"I don't like peanut butter," she says softly. "Do you want it, Teresa?"

"Thea," her Uncle warns. "That's yours. You need the calories," he reminds her patiently.

She scowls at the tray.

"I don't like cheese," she adds after a moment, poking her slice of pizza with her finger "Cheese has lots of fat in it, doesn't it?"

I can barely make out the muttering of some concealed expletive under Ogilvie's breath.

"Everyone needs a bit of fat in their food, Theye," he tries a new tactic now, "otherwise your brain doesn't work as well as it should. Everyone needs a little fat and protein in their diet every day. Now, you have to eat something. You know what the doctor said, honey. You have to eat more food and put on some weight before you can leave the hospital."

Thea sits up anxiously in her chair, suddenly pushing the food away in haste.

She almost looks like she's going to cry.

"I'm not hungry. I don't _want_ this food. This food is going to make me big."

Greg looks to me, closes his eyes. Tries to think of something consoling to say.

"Look, Thea - even Agent Lisbon is eating food with a little bit of fat in it. And she's not big, is she? She's very slim, isn't she?"

He gives me an apologetic look for dragging me into the thick of things. I nod slightly to let him know it's okay.

"I don't want this food. I don't want this food in my stomach," she whispers, still not okay with the situation.

"Just take a bite of everything. Just a bite, then," Ogilvie relents. "Can you do that? Just a tiny bite and then you'll hardly feel it in your tummy."

Thea takes a tiny piece of cheese, and pulls it from her pizza. Chews it. Swallows.

"I don't want anymore, Uncle Greg," and she all but piles the pizza on his plate.

The man recovers quickly, making room on his plate, but eyes the rest of her tray of food.

I suddenly wish Jane was sitting here, with us.

If anyone would know what to say - _what to do_ to make things easier for this child - it'd be him.

* * *

When I get back to his room, Jane's eyes are at half mast, and he gives me a slight, weak smile.

_Damnit._

_I wanted to be here when he woke up._

Cho stops talking as I enter.

"Better?," my second in command queries. I nod briefly.

I sit down in a neighboring red plastic chair.

"How are you feeling, Patrick?," I ask brightly. Too brightly.

Jane smiles back at me. His grin is sunny.

"_Patrick?_ And a smile? After konking out cold in the hospital? I _must_ be dying, or something, for you to do anything other than hit me right now," but his laugh simply highlights the fact that he has no conception how badly off he is.

"Jane," Cho reprimands, while my face falls. Jane immediately stops his teasing.

"What's wrong? Oh, come on Lisbon. I'm not _dying_. Relax."

I take a deep breath, suddenly very angry with him.

Suddenly - furious with him.

"You've been sick for weeks. You've been losing weight, and vomiting. Having nightmares and-"

Jane's eyes dart to Cho. He seems to bristle at the run down of his symptoms.

"Come on, Lisbon. We don't all need a recap of my problems-"

He seems almost embarrassed.

But right now, I don't care.

"You have an infection, Jane. In your heart."

He seems to sober up. Just a bit.

After a moment he speaks again.

"So I have a bug. I'll get more sleep. Take a break now that this case has basically wrapped up. Take a week off, just sleep, be right as rain."

"Jane - you have Endocarditis. Bacterial Endocarditis."

"I - I," he stops. Lets out a breath. "Okay. So I'm sick. I'll take better care of myself. I promise."

I settle down on the edge of his bed. Fight down a compulsion to grab his hand and hold it.

"No Jane. It's more serious than that. It's-," and how do I tell him this without scaring him more?, "a very bad infection. You're going to have to spend some time in the hospital."

He lets out a low hum of a laugh. As if I've just told a witty joke.

"Oh come off it, Lisbon. I'm just a little fatigued."

"'A little fatigued?' You passed out, Jane!"

"Meh. Low blood sugar. I haven't kept down much."

He's still smiling up at me, as if I'm just pulling his leg about - everything. It's not much of a secret that he absolutely loathes hospitals. Being in hospitals.

"We might be able to get permission for a flight back to Sacramento for you. So you can stay in a clinic there. But you're going to need doctors supervision. For several weeks, according to the doctors here. Your doctor."

"_My doctor_," he repeats, almost irritably. It's then that I realize that he actually looks a little unnerved now. "What do doctors know anyway, Lisbon? I just need to get some sleep. Drink an insane amount of orange juice. Build myself back up."

"Damn it, Jane! Can you just - for once - not be your typical cocky self? Can you just listen to the people who want to help you? This isn't something to fool around with! This is your _heart_ we are talking about!"

"Boss!," Cho intercedes then, suddenly. "No need to yell."

I turn to my agent with a glower.

"I wasn't _yelling_," I retort, petulantly - feeling my face tinge rose at a knock on the hospital room door.

"Is this a bad time?", Greg Ogilvie asks in mild concern from the hallway. "We just thought we'd come by and, I dunno, check in. Say thanks. Thea made you a card, Mr. Jane. Heard you weren't feeling too well."

Jane mutters a_ thank you_ at his hospital sheets, while Greg navigates the standard-issue wheelchair around the door. Thea reaches out to give her card to Jane, but her small arms don't quite extend far enough.

I act as intercessor, and study the card surreptitiously as I hand it over. I can only make out what look like rabbits in a garden, a little girl with straw colored hair, a fairy and a golden moon. The words:_ GET WELL PATRICK!_ in hot pink.

"Those are angels," Thea states seriously, pointing to the rabbits.

"And this is you," Jane smiles, pointing to the rosy colored human with straight orange hair and a green top.

"Mmm," Thea points to the moon now. "That's Abariel."

No one comments on that. There's no point in deconstructing a child's fantasy world when it's what allowed her to get through the worst sort of hell in the first place.

Jane squints for a second, his finger tracing the curly haired fairy, flying over everyone, in a purple and pink outfit with white bows in her hair.

"And this little person here. Is she a fairy?"

Thea glances over at the drawing, hesitates.

"That's Bean. She's a little girl who lives with Abariel on the moon. She has wings so she can come to Earth sometimes. Cause it's so far away. So she needs to fly."

Cho glances at me, gives me a smile. I return it, touched by Thea's thoughtfulness.

"Bean? That's a funny name for a little girl."

I glance up to give Jane a grin, when I catch his eyes.

He looks - off. Strange.

As if testing the name out on his tongue.

"Why doesn't Bean come to visit with her mom and dad?," he asks at last. His voice sounds faint. "It must get lonely to fly all the way from the moon to the Earth by herself."

Thea purses her mouth.

"Bean's mommy is in Heaven. And her daddy's on Earth. So now she has to live on the moon."

The smile suddenly slips from Jane's face. Mr. Ogilvie, I can tell, is sensing the rapidly mounting tension in the room.

I look to Cho, and realize he's tense too. Everyone can feel it. Everyone except for Thea, it would seem.

Greg looks to his niece now. But doesn't understand. No one - _unless they knew what Jane had lived through_ - could really comprehend the reason for his burgeoning anxiety.

"Why doesn't-", and Jane looks as pale as the starched sheet now, "Bean go to Heaven? So she can be with her mommy?"

"Because she wants to help people. She told me to come with her. When I had Chicory. But I couldn't get over the wall. It was too high."

"Theye," Mr. Ogilvie interrupts, looking alarmed. "I think we should let Mr. Jane rest now. We've given him your _get better_ card, but he's-"

Thea leans forward, ignoring her Uncle.

"She told me your name. She told me you were a good daddy, and that you were looking for me. That I could trust you. Bean told me that she tries to stay close by sometimes so she can give you hugs at night when you cry. When you're sad. She told me she doesn't want you to cry anymore."

Jane has solidified in the bed - his spine completely rigid.

I see him try to work his mouth in some basic manner that will allow him to speak.

"I see," he breathes, almost thirty seconds of quietude later.

The little girl rises unexpectedly then and wraps her stick-like arms around Jane's side. She gives him a brief hug, then pulls back. Smiles.

"Bean asked me to give you a hug. From her."

Cho suddenly disentangles Thea from Jane's bed, and helps her back into the wheelchair. He watches her with a look of deep confusion and disturbance.

I try my best to play it cool and flash an artificial smile to the child and her Uncle. The man gives me a pained look, and mouths _'I'm sorry' _- obviously realizing that _something_ has happened.

Something more than the mere imaginings of a seven year old.

Something so much more than _that._

When the door finally clicks softly behind our guests, I turn to study Jane. He suddenly looks weighed down by an almost supernatural heaviness.

He then opens his mouth to speak, stops. Hesitates.

"I need to be alone for a bit," he finally croaks out. "Please. Please leave me alone for awhile."

I nod at him dumbly, then turn to Cho - likewise ushering him away.

"Let's let Jane get some sleep," I mutter uselessly, having no idea of what to say or do to make this moment in time less painful for my best friend.

Cho doesn't even speak. Just glances back to Jane, concerned, then pads away to the door. I follow behind, tugged by wanting to say something that could make Jane feel better. Having no idea if that's even possible. If any conglomeration of words in the English language could make that possible.

"I'll check back in on you in an hour, alright Jane?"

Jane barely nods. Instead, he turns toward the wall - still holding the construction paper_ 'Get Well'_ card between his hands. His fingers don't stop brushing the crayon markings of the pink and purple figure flying high above the garden, high above the stars.


	33. Chapter 33

**Title - Little Stars - Part 33**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **"He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.

**A/N: Nothing really more to say, than sorry for the long delay!****  
**

***Yes, my computer is on the verge of dying. Makes updates hard, and limited largely to library net access time slots*  
**

This is far shorter than my typical chapters. And there's no Thea. But I wanted to get *something* posted. You guys have been far too patient for my own good. If I go too long between posting, I almost seem to become inhibited. When I post a chapter, I find the next few seem to come more readily. So to break out of this block, I'm just sending off what I have. Hope it's not too dismal. I'll try to have a sharper, cleaner chapter up soon. **  
**

* * *

**Jane's POV  
**

* * *

I hear Lisbon close the door. It_ shlocks_ into place.

My chest feels scratchy. Inside. In my lungs - and there is a heaviness in my cells that won't dissipate.

I don't think I want to cry. I rarely cry. And I never feel better after _crying_.

_She's just a little girl with a fantastic imagination._

_She's just a sensitive child. She watches. She studies._

_She probably just does what I do, intuitively._

_Her hyper-vigilance would make her more attune to the emotions of others.  
_

_She would have learned when to sense danger. _

_To know when she needed to prepare to dissociate herself._

_To cut herself off emotionally._

I know that. I know that, because that's how it was for me. When I was a little boy. Three, four years old. Before they came. Before it really hurt.

Of course, nobody else needs to know that.

_It's better if they don't know. Not any of it.  
_

_You shouldn't have told Lisbon.  
_

_Not about what happened when you were little.  
_

_It's sick.  
_

To be fair, Lisbon hasn't pressed me to talk about it. She _could_ have. But she didn't._  
_

Conversely, we were all working a case. A case with a deadly time limit. I'm not so naive to think she'll never bring it up again.

I know she will.

And I'm dreading it.

_Because she's worried about you, now._

_If she thought you were screwed up before..._

My mind suddenly flashes back to two days previously; I know I should feel shame. But all I feel is exhaustion. Even though Rigsby and Cho were spooked. Cho, normally so stoic, even he looked-

_Then suddenly gone. Out the door._

_They hadn't wanted to stay._

_To see. To hear what I was saying._

_The kinds of things I was saying._

_And then Lisbon, in her pajamas, her eyes owlish, hands held upright as if I would hurt her. As if I could ever knowingly hurt her.  
_

_Glass everywhere. Vodka everywhere. Blood everywhere._

_Or, it looked as such.  
_

_A deep cut, in my foot. Bleeding through alcohol.  
_

_And it almost felt good.  
_

_That pain.  
_

_And I wanted to tell her that. To get Lisbon to understand  
_

_that she didn't have to look at me like I had hit rock bottom  
_

_because I felt better  
_

_with the alcohol and the cuts and the blood  
_

_and it felt soothing. To hurt.  
_

_But I didn't say that.  
_

_She was already so scared.  
_

_And I hadn't even tried to hurt myself.  
_

_I just...threw the bottle at the wall, then slipped on the liquid._

_Fell through the shards.  
_

I can also recall Lisbon's hands, gently shaking, while she rolled up the cuffs on my pajama bottoms, checked my legs for wounds, and then my arms. Bandaging my foot, extracting glass from it with her fingers so softly, because she couldn't find any tweezers.

* * *

Intellectually, I know there is no truth - no objective truth - in Thea's words. Not about seeing my daughter. Not about my daughter being here.

Charlotte is dead. And I don't believe in ghosts. I don't.

I don't believe in eternally-trapped six year old souls who linger about their still-living parents in ethereal form, trying to comfort them.

_But she wouldn't want me to cry, still. She wouldn't have wanted me to cry at all._

_Charlotte hated it when anyone cried._

My arms still tingle with the presence of Thea's hug. Her bone-arms, squeezing in. That look of sympathy in those eyes, even amidst emaciation. That unreal kindness. _  
_

_So that's half the battle right now.  
_

Because I can't be angry with her - this sprite of a child - for dredging up feelings of loss.

She's trying to _help_ me.

The feeling of bitter irony is clawing at my guts.

_This little kid - so brutalized by adults..._

_No - not just adults. By men, and men alone_ - and yet she wants to make_ me_ feel better.

I turn back towards my dinner tray, where Thea's card still lays haphazardly next to a tub of peach yoghurt. I have no memory of anyone bringing me food; just as well, as I have no appetite. But there it is - the yoghurt. Sitting up perkily in a mustard-yellow dish, metallic-plastic sheathed top already removed - plastic spork already sticking halfway through the food.

Someone has _prepared_ it for me.

No - not just someone.

_Lisbon. _

_Lisbon has all but hand fed me this yoghurt._

_Probably would, too - if she knew she'd get away with it.  
_

I pick up the card, and let my fingertips gloss over the thick stroked crayon markings. The waxy edges.

_Despite everything she's gone through, this little girl wanted to make me feel better._

_Not worse._

_She didn't mean to cause me pain._

My hand touches the paper. The head of the 'fairy.' Something achy and familiar curdles in my heart._  
_

Sour milk-blood. It needs to come out.

Probably what is damaging my heart.

Not an infection.

Not bacteria.

_This_.

_I wish you **could** hug me, Charley._

_My God, I miss you. You and your Momma._

I force down rancid spittle.

"Oh, Charley-Bean," I whisper, "I know you never wanted me to cry. You always hated it when anyone was sad. You had such a big heart. I just - I just miss you so much, Charlotte. I miss mommy, too. And I want to believe that you're here with me. But I can't stop feeling sad,_ because I don't think you really are_..."

I put the card back down on the table.

"So, if you really _are there_ - listening to any of this - then I want you to know that I'm so sorry. For being such a stupid daddy. I'm so sorry that you'll never get to grow up, Bean. Get all your 'big people' teeth, like you wanted. I never got to take you to see Daisy. I wish I could teach you how to drive - you'd have been old enough too, this year. That's how long you've been gone. I could have taken you out, and have shown you how to park and then we'd go get Rocky Road ice-cream afterwards. And the Pixar movies. You missed so many that I know you'd have loved. You would have loved WALL.e - he was this little lost robot, all alone in the Universe. So he watches old movies and puts Christmas lights up in his house to try to feel happy. Because they remind him of when he might have been happy. But he's lonely. So lonely, Bean. Sorta like daddy."

I open the card, read the inscription.

Once, twice.

Again.

Staccatoish writing, but no reversals. A child's scrawl, sweet and pure:

_'I hope you fell much better soon Patrick. _

_You were so nice to me and made me feel safer when I was scarred and I am sorry you fell so bad right now. _

_Thank you for the grap juce and for the blancet when I was cold and telling me everythig would be okay._

_I now you will be okay to.  
_

_Hugs from your freind _

_THEA'  
_

The writing isn't massive in font size, but it's large enough that it takes up the entire card's inner surface - both sides.

_'I now you will be okay to.'_

Talking to Charlotte like this feels silly.

No doubt about it, it does.

But it's _helping_. In some small way, it makes me feel better.

I think about what I want to say next. What I want to get out before...I can't. Before I freeze up.

_As if any of this is real..._

_As if she can really hear you..._

"I was supposed to take you to the water-slides for your birthday, Bean. I was supposed to take you the next week... The very next week. That's why mommy got you that new bathing suit. The one with the purple ribbons and the mermaids. But you died. And after you died, and I came home from the hospital, I couldn't look at it. It hurt too much. I wasn't thinking about how much you loved that bathing suit. It just reminded daddy...that he couldn't save you. So I threw it away. I put it in the garbage and I threw it away. Because it hurt me so much, Charley. And then, a week later, I wanted it back. I wanted it back so much - I cried and cried and called the garbage men right away and begged them to tell me where it might be. The bathing suit. Because you loved it so much. But I threw it away, like it was nothing, even though it wasn't nothing at all, not to you - and I'm so sorry I did that. I'm so sorry that I didn't protect you. I was your daddy, but I didn't protect you when you needed me most. You or mom. That's why I can't stop crying, Charley. Even with your hugs. I hate myself for not saving you, and I miss you both so much."_**  
**_

My head pounds, and I know I have to stop this before someone comes in and hears me.

But it feels...okay.

It feel like I'm lancing a wound. Drawing pus out and away from my body. Getting rid of something putrid, fetid.

"I'm going to try to be a better daddy. Even if you're gone. I'm going to do better, I promise. Just in case you're there. Just because - I never wanted to hurt you. So I'm going to sleep now - I'm going to really try, just like the doctors have told me - and if you decide that when I'm sleeping...that you want to give me another hug, well I'd like that, Bean. I'd like your hugs right now. I'll always take your hugs."

I eye the peach yoghurt, and debate whether I should attempt to eat it first. I've vomited up most of my food in the last few days.

_'I'm going to try to be a better daddy...'_

_Peach was Charley's favorite.  
_

And Lisbon's._  
_

* * *

When I wake up, the light within the room has dimmed._  
_

_Hours must have passed, and I didn't even realize it...  
_

Suddenly, I become aware of other things: the faint sound of light breathing, the almost non-existent scent of cinnamon. _  
_

_I really need to ask her what she uses. If it's soap. Or body lotion. Or shampoo._

_What it is._

_Of course, then I'd want to buy some, just to keep it in my attic.  
_

_And that would be incredibly stupid.  
_

_It would look wrong. Maybe even... creepy... if she ever found it. _

_Which, with my luck, she probably would.  
_

Even in the darkness I can make out the tousled locks of Lisbon's hair. She's washed it recently, that much is for certain - but that's all, as her head is covered in curls.

Truth be told, I prefer it on her. Her _almost-ringlets_. It's softer, somehow. More feminine, in a way. But it also reminds me of our earlier days together. Lisbon the tomboy, in simple white starched shirts, maroon baggy sweaters. Absolutely no makeup, maybe save for a little Labello lip balm and tinted moisturizer. I was able to tease her more about it. Now I have to be more creative with how and what I tease her about.

Because Lisbon has changed. I don't want to say necessarily for the better, in terms of herself. In some ways, she's even more self-sacrificing now, which concerns me. But she's also less likely to jostle me awake when I'm cat-napping, and she is better at gauging my moods.

I hear a keening groan, and Lisbon suddenly stretches her arms out in front of herself as if she's a cat.

_She must be unaware that I'm watching her_.

Suddenly her green eyes meet mine, and she covers her yawn.

"How are you feeling?," she mumbles, staring at my hand. "You scared the hell out of me, Jane."

For some reason I sense that she wants to hold onto me but is not letting herself do so.

I see her lips purse. She looks...

_She wants to give you space_, _because she doesn't want you to be overwhelmed._

The thought causes me to waken fully. The sound in my head not my own, but familiar.

"Jane?"

"Umm, sorry. I'm fine. I'm okay, Lisbon. Groggy. I ate your peach yoghurt, by the way," I respond easily, clamping down around my emotions so as to give nothing away, and trying to redirect the conversation away from anything that could quickly degrade into tenseness.

**Because suddenly, like a lightening bolt, I feel it.**

_She doesn't want you to know how she feels_.

_**How she feels about you.**_

_About her and you._

The change in her emotions. The intensity I've started to see in her eyes. Especially in the last few months.

It's faint, but it's there. And I know what it is. I do. I can't deny that I know what this is, because I've seen it before.

_In Angela. _

_At 18, 19._

_A few months later, a kiss, rotund and full like a supernova.  
_

_You were married a year later_, the voice supplies, and suddenly I feel a little queasy. Suddenly, I need to grasp for things I know. Things that are stable.

What makes this doubly tricky is the fact that Lisbon's probably not even fully conscious of these feelings.

Not yet.

Soon.

But not _yet._

I would have picked up on this much sooner if she was thinking about me in any sort of...romantic...

"Jane? You're not feeling dizzy, are you? You look a little pale."

I clear my throat.

"Apparently I'm _dying, _according to you. I should be pale."

Lisbon crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"I did not say that! When did I ever say that? God, what is wrong with you sometimes? Can't you ever take my concern for you seriously? Can't you ever take _anything_ seriously?"

_Of course I can._

**_That's what scares me._**

_Because I suspect that all of ...this... is changing. _

_Trying to change._

_You and me.  
_

_And I don't want that.  
_

_Because I don't know what will happen.  
_

"I'm sorry," I say tensely after a few more lingering seconds.

I actually feel a little overwhelmed. A little lost for words.

"_Bullcrap, you're sorry_," Lisbon mutters away under her breath, not really mad.

Immediately I feel calmer.

Calmer, in one respect only, as I'm still a little unnerved by what she's trying to tell me about this endocarditis business. It sounds serious. It does. I'm just pretending it doesn't to help keep her distracted.

It's bad enough if I start to feel that tug of emotions. If I see Lisbon panic, I'm done for...

At the same time, I almost _like it_ when Lisbon gets a little irritated with me. Not too much. Just a little. It feels safe. Like nothing can really be too bad if she's actually getting mad at me. Which, in turn, calms me more so. Win-win, really.

Besides, now I know from the previous night that when she thinks I'm really losing it, she doesn't respond with anything other than low tones, soft words, and all-too sympathetic eyes that make me feel both safe - _so damn safe_ - and ready to crack, and just get it out.

More lancing. More opening it all up. And getting it out of my mind. Even if it means sharing it with her.

_Like talking about my daughter, my wife._

_Telling her about the guilt. The guilt that clogs my throat every December and makes me feel allergic, breathless, choked. Like my throat is going to close up. Because every year it feels both more real and less real,somehow, at the same time._

_And I think one day it's going to do me in.  
_

_And other stuff. Stuff far more ancient, and almost as ugly. Or maybe as ugly, to her. _

_Not to me. Because I lived. I made it through it, and pushed it away, and all that it did was cause a few nights of screaming, and shushing, and fights with Angela.  
_

_But they are dead. They are in a grave.  
_

_Of course, Lisbon wouldn't look it so cleanly. She'd be distracted by it. She has been. I can tell. I can tell when she's thinking about it. Thinking about what they did to me. When I was almost a baby.  
_

_I know because her face seems to take on this crushed tone. Like I've killed one of her old golden labs.  
_

**_So what did you do, genius?_**

**_You went and told her._**

**You told.**

**_You were never supposed to tell._**

**_Never._**

_I didn't even talk to Angela about it. _

_Even when she begged to know._

_I told her it was better that way.  
_

_One less thing to hurt her._

It makes me think that maybe I am coping well enough on my own. Because I told.

I was supposed to just live with it and not have to even speak of it again, to anyone. I was never supposed to see that look in anyone's eyes. Especially not Lisbon's.

"So now you are just ignoring me, is that it?"

I startle abruptly, then curse myself internally for being so bare.

"Listen, woman; I ate your joghurt, I slept for hours, I apologized to you. What more do you want?"

I like calling her 'woman.' It used to bug the hell out of her in our first few years together, but it always did make me inwardly smile. Now, it's even comforting. Because it's a routine. It's my routine. Like egg salad sandwiches and afternoon tea.

I've always suspected she likes giving in to her sour-puss moods, anyway. She's Irish that way.

She eyes me, then sighs.

"You really ate it? Just didn't, oh I don't know, pour it down the toilet?"

"I ate it. Every last drop. Scouts honor."

She doesn't comment on the absurdity of my statement. I can distantly recall using the expression before, but in my dozed state, I cannot be 100% certain.

"Considering it was one of those Minigo things, I'm sure that must have been a real ordeal for you. All three tablespoons of food that that was."

I smile at her. One of my milder, half-mouthed smiles so that she doesn't sock me in the arm for my outright bastardness.

"Well then Doctor Lisbon, what do you say we blow this Popsicle stand and get some real food from the cafeteria?"

"Cafeteria food is 'real'? Now I _know_ you're insane."

I search the floor beneath me for my shoes.

"Uh uh, no way Jane. Don't even bother. I had Cho confiscate them. Because I already knew you'd have trouble with the concept of _bed rest_. This way you don't have the same temptation as you would if I'd left your ugly brown shoes lying about."

I sigh dramatically.

_Time to pull out the big guns._

"So I'm stuck in this little tin can room with white mental-wardesque barrenness? I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime, Lisbon."

Lisbon remains unsympathetic. She just looks at me, unflinchingly.

She knows exactly what I'm doing.

"Not going to work, buddy. But how about you promise - _promise, _Jane - to be good, and I'll bring you back whatever you want from the restaurant? Plus I'll even head onto the gift store before they close and get you some of those Sudoku or crossword puzzle books you like so much. But only if you are a good boy, of course."

I hesitate, and let the comment slide. Now that I'm awake, I really don't want to be alone right now.

"Orrr," Lisbon drawls, "I can track down a wheelchair. And maybe, if you're lucky, your doctor will let you be wheeled down to the cafeteria. That's my final compromise, take it or leave it."

"Oh come on. This is ridiculous. I'm really not that sick. Here, I'll show you..."

This time when I move to get out of bed, I tug against something sharp and unfamiliar, and recoil in stinging pain.

"Damnit, Jane!"

My arm is bleeding. Actually, my hand is bleeding. From where I've just dislodged an IV.

"What's this?," I ask dumbly, watching the trickle dribble out onto the bedding.

"It's for your heart. Antibiotics. God, wait here. I'm going to get a nurse," and then Lisbon turns back suddenly. "Stay here. Don't move, Jane, or I swear-"

I cut her off quickly, before she can really get going.

"I'll stay right here, Lisbon. I promise."

She stills for a moment, then nods, shuts the door.

* * *

A few minutes later, Lisbon returns with a rose-haired nurse. The nurse has the whitest skin I've ever seen on a non-albino.

She actually reminds me of a flower. And she _'tuts'_ when she comes on over to me.

"Oh, Mr. Jane, you need to be very careful not to dislodge this line. It's what you need right now, for your heart."

Lisbon looks at me sternly, over top the short head of the nurse who must only reach 4 ft 10. At most.

_And here I thought Lisbon was tiny._

"He wanted to go to the cafeteria. Get some dinner," Lisbon suggests primly. "Wasn't paying much attention, although I have to ask...how could you not feel an IV, Jane?"

"I guess I was still a little groggy. Anyway, not a big deal. It's like...installing a cable line. I'll be back in good standing in no time, I'm sure."

"No, that's really not a good idea, Agent Lisbon," and suddenly flower-nurse turns back to me, her voice registering several degrees more loudly. I almost feel like an elderly deaf patient. "You need your rest, Mr. Jane."

"What about dinner for him?," Lisbon asks absently. "Can I bring him back something from the cafe?"

"Him?," I echo. "'Him' would like pizza. Pizza, and maybe a London Fog. Something with bergamot."

Not that I really want or crave pizza at all.

But I thought I'd begin with a very over-the-top request, or something completely horrid for my heart, and then use a bartering technique to get my caffeinated London Fog.

"Sorry Jane," Lisbon sympathizes, "no caffeine, no trans fat, low sodium. No stress. The rules are pretty basic. I'm even sure you'll be able to remember them."

I glower at my hospital blanket. I should have suspected the main loop-holes would have been closed off to me.

They almost always are in hospitals. One of the reasons I hate hospitals.

"But I'm sure there won't be a problem with something herbal, like chamomile. I could check with your doctor, see what he has to say?," Lisbon tries again, suddenly realizing that "no tea" probably equates with increased stress. For me. As crazy as that sounds.

Both women begin to make their way outside, Lisbon giving my good hand a light squeeze before pulling the door 3/4's closed, interrupted in her mission by Cho's approach.

I strain to hear the words.

_'Have you told him, boss?'_

A pause, and then her voice, withered:

_'No, not yet. Not until he's better. No stress, Cho. That's rule #1.'_

_'When he finds out...'  
_

_'Let's talk about this later.'  
_

And then the voices fade away entirely, which is somehow even worse. _  
_

Not knowing, for me, is always worse.

**So whatever it is that they think they need to hide from me must be pretty upsetting.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Title - Little Stars - Part 34**

**Author - Kourion **

**A/N: **I do apologize - profusely - for the terribly long time that it has taken me to get this chapter completed. Thank you - everyone - for hanging in there, and reading to this point.

For those who have reviewed, and sent me encouragement - thank you! I mean that, truly. This chapter is for **_you guys._**

As always my comp is acting up, so any spelling errors are my own. Hopefully, there is nothing too overt or distracting, but there may be some errors. Please do your best to ignore them.

**Warning:** this chapter, more than others, addresses childhood sexual abuse and assault. It was a killer chapter to write, but necessary for the character growth of Thea. The epilogue to follow will be appropriately lighter (which is still far from 'light'), and my hope...will contain a sense of completion. Resolution.

**Reviews** = cyber macademia nut cookies.

* * *

**Lisbon's POV **

* * *

I hold up a finger to Cho, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.

"Boss?"

I bring my finger to my lips and he seems to clue in.

"Of course," he breathes, walking away from Jane's hospital room door.

_Jane has the hearing of a bat._

_And we need to keep things calm for him. Stable._

I walk with Cho across the hallway, past the nurses' station.

"Bertram called," Cho adds stiffly. "He wants us back in Sacramento. Tonight, he said."

I resist pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course Bertram wants us back in Sacramento. This case wrapped almost three days ago. For us, if not for Thea. If not for Thea's family. Thea, God bless her, is just facing the next step in her treatment. A detour of a step, at that.

_Some of the toughest stuff has yet to come. Yet to be **acknowledged.**_

"What about Jane? Bertram wants me to leave him here, huh?"

I try to hold onto my anger. My irritation. It will keep me going, whereas fear will simply inhibit me.

Cho gives me a grimace-smile.

"He said... and I quote _"handle the situation, and get back as soon as possible."_'

The Asian man looks about as sympathetic as he's ever looked, but still I quell the impulse to scream in frustration.

"What does that even mean?," I hiss.

Cho shrugs. "I guess it means that I'm expected back. Rigsby and Van Pelt too. You might have two days, top. You know, to deal with this 'Jane' thing."

I blink back wooziness. There is still too much to process.

"What about Thea? Her Uncle is being called back to New York. What about her?"

Cho's face takes on a look of resolute stoicism. He's trying to stay calm. Which, for him...says something.

"I spoke to Greg. His boss isn't budging. His boyfriend might get out by tomorrow. A swap, of sorts."

_Damnit._

_This is not what this little girl needs right now._

Or, maybe it won't make one whit of a difference.

_She's shutting down._

Maybe she won't even process the absence of yet another trusted person in her life.

"Thea doesn't know Dean. She's all alone here..."

The thought makes me feel faint, and Cho is quiet.

"I'm going to head back to the hotel," he finally states. "Pack up my stuff. Van Pelt says to call her when you can. Something to do with the dog."

**_Right._**

**The veterinarians.**

I nod as Cho walks away, then I retrieve my cell phone.

* * *

It takes eight rings before she answers, but she does.

"Grace?," I check in. "You're at the veterinarians? You sound out of breath."

"Mmm," comes the muffled response. Then a sound like the phone _dropping_.

"Sorry," comes the voice of my youngest agent.

"How's the puppy?"

A pause.

"He's...alive," Grace's voice sounds thick. "Moretti did a number on this little guys' head, though. His face, boss...he doesn't even look _normal_. It's-"

I can hear the stress in her voice.

"Is he going to make it?," I ask, in what I hope is a collected and calming voice.

Her response is yet another breath, deep and rattled.

"Yes. The doctor_ thinks so_. And he's asking what we want to do about it. What _do_ we do, boss? Can Mr. Ogilvie take Chicory? Cho can't. Rigsby can't. I'm not supposed to have a hamster in my place, _damn condo board regulations_..."

I don't want to even attempt to answer that. Primarily because I highly doubt Mr. Ogilvie can take the dog himself and I don't want to add to the poor man's stress in even asking.

He's already beyond overwhelmed. Anyone in his position would be.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea, Grace. I mean, even if he could take the dog. The whole...history. Even after Chicory gets better, it's going to be a constant reminder of what Thea lived through. For Thea most of all. I think we need to discuss that aspect with Greg. How Chicory's presence may delay Thea's ability to get over what happened to her. Impede her ability to heal and move on in her life."

Grace doesn't say anything. Not for the longest time.

And then: "He's her_ friend_, boss. He saved her. Tried to. Looked out for her. Wouldn't he offer comfort now?"

I pick apart a torn cuticle.

"I'm not so sure. _Perhaps._ At first. I'm not a child psychologist though Grace. At any rate... you say he looks bad, and Thea's sensitive. She's going to feel guilty for his injuries. I suspect so. Maybe it's better if she gets a clean break from the dog. From this stage of her life..."

It probably seems weak to Grace. Cowardly, maybe. But she's so little, Thea. Her past is a seven year investment in pain with very little to console her.

If she's lucky, she can start anew with a family that teaches her what love really means.

And while it may not extinguish every awful memory- if she's lucky, it will take some of the pain away.

* * *

I catch Greg pacing the halls outside of the children's psychiatric ward.

The section of the hospital is called_ "Blue Owl,"_ and a neon blue line runs in tacky stop-and-start etchings on the ground, identifying a clear way to the cafeteria, the main ward, and the central core of the hospital.

A line in blue paint leading into a department for children who live in hell.

_Children with schizophrenia. With personality disorders. Struggling with psychosis. _

_Eating disorders._

As if it wasn't cruel enough when adults where striken down with such diseases.

Greg suddenly looks up. His eyes are black. Two simmering coals in an all too pale face.

_He's aged at least a couple years in the last few days. _

_It's more intense than just about anything I have ever seen._

Instead of speaking now, he gives me a smile. Or tries to. It looks crumbly, his 'smile'. Not at all firm, or rooted in happiness.

"Is she better?," I ask. I almost don't want to ask, but it comes out on its own.

Greg shakes his head back and forth, on mute. An awkward amount of time later, he mutters, "No. No...she's not better."

It's not a very hopeful situation. _I get it._

_But I had to ask._

"Has she said anything since she was told about her mother and father?"

He squints, as if against terribly bright light, and then releases a powerful breath of air.

"No. She just sits there - rigidly. And I can't get her to meet my eyes, hold my hand. It's like a doll. But she's warm. _At least she's warm_."

_At least she's warm._

At least she didn't die in the bottom of a lake. Water gushing over her bony body. Having its way with limbs far too weak to pull herself up and into the air for breath.

Yes. At least she's not _dead._

_Not physically._

**Because where there is physical life, there is hope.**

"Agent Cho mentioned that you have to return to New York City tonight," I mention simply.

Not a question. So _not_ a question. He gives me a torn look.

"I want to stay. _I do_. But I can't," and his voice cracks. "I've used up all my vacation pay, and any additional time off. I might be able to get sick leave, if I can convince a doctor here of legitimate sickness."

"Stress leave?," I say quietly, in silent agreement. "Might not be a bad idea."

Greg Ogilvie shakes his head, in dispute.

"No, I have to save that," he whispers, more to himself than to me. "I have to save that. If something really bad happens, I need to have some flexibility. To take care of Thea."

I give him a muted smile, in sympathy.

"I get it. I do. You have to be smart about it, even if your heart doesn't want to leave her here," I add, my eyes hopefully offering encourgement that he's doing the right thing.

Greg slumps to a chair in the waiting room, fatigue now more than he can take it would seem.

"I need to prepare myself for the long haul, Agent Lisbon. I know that might make me seem cold. Especially when Theye's in hell now. But I love Thea, and I can't let her live in a psychiatric facility. Not for the rest of her childhood."

Confusion flitters through to my brain, and a darker, uglier cynicism laughs faintly in my mind.

_I push it away. That feeling. Forcefully push it away._

_As if it is something rancid._

"Is that what they're saying? That she's going to have to be here for a long time?"

We both know who _"they"_ are.

Greg suddenly looks as if he might cry.

"I love that little kid, but she's...not normal. They say it might be best if she spends some more time in the clinic. For an _"extended period of time."_ What does that even mean, anyway? For a seven year old? How long is extended, when you're that young? A month? A _year_? How can I plan for her, when I don't know what I need to do? How to help her, or what to say to even break through to her? I'm totally operating in the dark here!"

I resist an impulse to grab the man's hand, and hang on. I sense his desperation, his frustration, his fear.

"Greg?," I address him calmly, and he looks up - as if startled by the first name addressal. But he looks up, nonetheless. "Thea isn't normal. You're right. But abnormal doesn't always have to be bad. She's very _sensitive_, and she's been very badly hurt. And she's hurting herself, too. But it doesn't mean she's _ruined_. It just means she needs to sort through what has happened and is having difficulty expressing the pain she's experiencing. But when she emerges again, you'll be there, and you'll show her love, and that might hurt even worse than staying locked in upon herself - maybe it will - but she will know she is_ loved_. **_Properly loved._ **And that shame will disappear. You just have to give her time. Have faith in her."

Greg fiddles with his watch - stroking the glass front as if he's transfixed.

"What if time doesn't fix her? What if love_ isn't_ enough?"

I close my mouth. My response could never begin to be good enough. Could never begin to help fill in the broken, black pieces for a man who has now been thrust into the role of guardian to a severely tormented child with self-harm features. A man who doesn't know what he_ needs_ to guard. What he needs to address, what he needs to ignore, what he needs to _save. In her._

_And when all the cracks are smoothed away, will Thea even resemble the child we tried to find?_

_The child we hope is underneath all that pain?_

**_The child we thought we were saving?_**

* * *

"I understand," I attempt, at last. Then try to change the topic. Somewhat.

Only somewhat, as there is too much that still needs to be discussed.

"So Dean is coming out?," I question and Greg Ogilvie nods.

"He said he'd be here by Friday. But I have to be back to work the day after tomorrow, so Thea's going to be alone for about three days." I watch an adam's apple bulge, and get stuck. He can't swallow down that lump.

"She won't be _alone_," I add in assurance. "She's with really good nurses and doctors here. Right now, she's with the best people she can be with."

Which may or may not be true. But at least she's with child psychiatrists that have training. That have the experience to best deal with her conditions.

"Grace is going to be bringing back Chicory, to Sacramento. If you want, I mean - we can take care of him after this point. I thought it would be something to discuss with you. I'm sure you have more than enough on your plate, as it is."

"Oh _God,"_ the man wheezes, "I totally forgot about him! _Damnit_," and his voice clips into self-anger now. Self-regret.

"It's okay. Ja...Patrick took care of the visits, the treatments. We just want to know how we can help. If you can't take the puppy, please know that we understand. We more than understand."

Greg's head continues to shake back and forth, as if I am pushing the dog onto him and not the exact opposite.

"I don't...I don't think it's a good idea. We are not supposed to...Hell...we snuck in Casper, and he's so scarred - this dog. Your Agent Rigsby told me. Just a little bit. About how that bastard crushed Chicory's skull with a rock. His teeth are gone, his eye...they had to remove his _eye_, Agent Rigsby said. If Thea sees him, how will it help her? Will it make it worse? _I don't think it's a good idea_..."

The man sounds borderline panicked. About a puppy.

**_A puppy without an eye._**

**_And a decompressed skull._**

"It's okay," and I try to attempt 'soothing,' even though I feel stressed myself. "You don't need to worry about Chicory. We'll take care of him for you."

"You didn't sign on for that. I just - I don't know what to do right now. About anything."

"And you didn't sign on for this, Greg. Right now, you have to build yourself up - like you said. My team is more than willing to take over the responsibility for this little dog. And if that helps you and Thea right now, please let us do this. I want to help. The team wants to help."

"I need to pay Patrick back. I can't let him shoulder that expense. He's already done too much, already. He's sick, and I can't help but feel-"

This time I do take his hand - professionalism aside.

"Patrick likes doing things like this. Believe me, he does. And you are not responsible for anything that has happened to Thea, or the dog, or your family. My team wants to help. Just let us know how, and I promise you we will do our best."

Greg zips up his sweater jacket, as if cold.

_I know I am._

"Do you think maybe you can visit Theye? Just, speak with her one last time? Even if she doesn't speak with you, it might help. You're a woman, and she trusts you."

And just like that, Greg Ogilvie looks yet another year older.

* * *

"Does this relate to the case?," the intake nurse asks me when I show her my badge.

I pray that it is sufficient enough to pass.

"Sort of. I won't be questioning her, if that's the concern. But she may want to talk about things that could help the case. Help with the prosecutionary evidence that we need to compile against the man who took her, and hurt her."

The nurse looks wary.

"Thea is in restriction right now, Agent Lisbon. She's probably not going to be able to talk, even if she wanted to."

I feel a sense of portentious anxiety creep along my sides, hugging my guts.

"What does that mean?"

"We had to administer an NG tube. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't even _drink_ the electrolyte mix we prepared for her. Her vitals were...bad. Still are, of course. It was that, or nothing. For her. Literally, she faces death, unless we can turn this around."

**_I try to ignore the fact that Jane and Thea are tied by an ancient pain._**

**_One that has weakened them both._**

**_So much so that their hearts are being slowly consumed and ravaged._**

"I don't mean that to sound melodramatic," the nurse continues on, her features softening slightly. "But it's true. So I'll ask you again. Why do you want to see Thea Castleton?"

Hedging won't work. Lying is beneath me. Beneath what Thea deserves.

I hold my breath. Look Nurse Fletcher straight in the eyes.

"I'm here because I'm worried about her. Because she trusted me when we didn't think she'd trust _anyone_. And I want her to know that she's not alone. Even if she doesn't speak to me, I want her to know that in her heart. At some level, I want her to know that I'm not giving up on her even if she wants to give up on herself."

The nurse deliberates my statements, my words. Finally she passes a visitors badge over the counter.

"I wish you luck then, Agent Lisbon. Because that little girl is the very epitome of sick. If you think you can help, then I applaud your dedication to something more than your job, that's all I can say."

If I didn't sense the utterly raw sadness behind the words, I'd almost feel insulted. But I don't feel insulted.

**I just feel apprehensive.**

* * *

The last door to the right is painted red. A Venetian red.

An orange button on the side blinks every three to four seconds.

I wait for the buzz signal, and the light turns green. A soft click lets me know that I have temporary entrance.

I pull against the handle, and go inside.

* * *

The space inside has no windows. No plants. It's white, and it's barren, and it's the type of space that makes me feel clausterphobic. And I'm not even the one whose strapped down in here.

A yellow chair - the colour of a lemon Starburst - assaults my eyes but I grab at it and slide it over to the bedside so I can sit down near to the patient. When I sit, I feel brittle. Like chalk.

"Hello sweetheart," I begin, trying to make contact with eyes the colour of the sky after a thunderstorm.

Beautiful eyes, but absent of emotions. Clouded almost - as if the child has been stricken with glaucoma, and not grief.

"It's _Teresa_, honey. I came to see you."

Nothing. Not a flicker, not a sound. Instead, the little girl's chest rises and falls almost rhythmically.

"I guess you must be pretty tired. Really, really sleepy. I heard the doctor's gave you a little medicine?"

_A sedative is more like it._

The eyes move microscopically. But they _do_ move. And that's more than anyone has experienced with her in the last 11 hours.

"And something for your tummy, too?"

Nothing this time. For a second, I almost think that I must have imagined the earlier reaction, as minute as it was.

_But I haven't._

_What caused the reaction before? _

_What word? What sound? _

_'Doctor'? 'Sleepy'? _

_'Medicine?'_

"Did you have to take the pink syrup? Or did you take the medicine that tastes like oranges?"

**And this is like talking to the wall.**

I hesitantly nudge the girl's shoulder to see if I can get a reaction through physical touch.

If feels like a sharp edge. A razored thorn of bone. I try to convince myself that she's a child, and she's small.

_And that she's not dying._

Even though she is. Right now. Half way between living and dying, and it could go either way.

My eyes zero in on the tube.

The tube that has wound itself up through her upturned nose, through her right nostril, and down into her belly.

_That must have hurt like a bitch._

* * *

There are some consistencies that tend to be shared amongst all those who grieve. How suddenly, like a flash of lightening...we get it. Fully. **_That the ones we love are dead._**

Because there is always that spark. That time that we toy with, have to contend with, have to acknowledge. The potentiality of death on any given day. For any one of us. So it's rarely the periods of intense life that haunt us.

It's that second that _isn't_ a second. That time when a body cusps and holds onto two hands, equally. A hand of life, for a child - usually is that of a mother or a father. Checking a fever, or racing to an ER.

And a hand of death: when the fever spikes and cannot be fought off or when the physical body weakens in some other manner. That world of tangling with ghosts. Of greying skin, and slowing heartbeats, and lips that are turning purple.

Because that's when they need you. And that's what haunts you.

Be it a daughter, for Jane. Or a mother, for me.

And what had Jane said?

_To apply a hand, to keep the blood in...?_

* * *

**He had said that Charlotte had had two throats on that night. **

**One, the throat and mouth proper. That had always been. That took in nutrition and gave spoken words. **

**The other mouth - a gaping hole created by a blade. **

**Absent of teeth, or the ability to scream. A throat that could only cause an outwards rush of blood and which could never sustain its own construction for long. **

_And Jane had mentioned that memory. How he had kept his hands on Charlotte's throat, and squeezed._

_For hours._

* * *

"Patrick wants you to know that he said "thank you". He wants to say thank you for being such a thoughtful kid."

Jane, of course, never said any such thing. But he would if he knew it would help her. Jane would probably say anything to help this child. Do anything to help this child. She's some long-lost, barely-there surrogate daughter. He knows better, of course. But he can't help the draw. The connection. The fact that this little child looks so much like his daughter, and is near death.

Just as his own child had been, once.

It's as if Thea represents that microcosm of space and time where, for a moment - a precious and irretrievable nanosecond - his daughter still had lived. Still had breathed. Cut. Bleeding.

_Dying. _But still living.

The infuriation of the 'almost' moment. **_When you almost saved a life, but didn't?_**

That is perhaps the single worst aspect of grief. To know that you came so close to saving someone. And that only the _smallest moment_ of misplaced time and action took them away from you forever.

So I take a breath, and try again.

Because I can't lose this child.

Just like I can't lose Jane. And the two are linked. More than they should be.

* * *

"Thea?," and I hate that I'm pleading, but I am. "I know you can't talk very easily right now. And that's okay. You don't have to talk to me - or anyone. But it would make me very happy if you could listen."

_Because I will take a response._

_I just cannot take the catatonia. _

_The sense that you're going to go away inside yourself. Forever. __Because some little girls do, and they don't ever find their way back again._

"Do you think you can just look me in the eye?"

And it sounds like a scolding, when said after the fact; that's not what I wanted at all.

"Okay, Thea," my voice is struggling against resignation. "I just want you to hear me. Just a little part of you needs to listen to me right now. Because I know something about you. I know your secret. Your biggest secret."

Thea's hands clench against the white, corded restraints. From this distance I can see the gauze bandages on her forearm, covering a multitude of wounds -all self-inflicted with a fork.

"I know that you're hurting very badly right now. Inside. That everything feels like it's too much, and not enough, and you don't know if you have to cry, or have to scream, or have to fight. Maybe you don't even know if what you need to fight is real, or if it's outside you. Or if you need to fight a person. Your daddy, maybe. But I know it feels awful."

Those eyes, so light and yet so _dark_... they close now. Thea doesn't look at me, or away from me. Her eyes simply close _entirely_.

But her chin is trembling, so I know she is hearing me at some level. And it's enough to give me the strength to keep going, even when I want to stop for her sake, and hold her and tell her she doesn't have to even _think about it ever again._

"I know it feels like you can't breathe enough and that it hurts too much to keep inside much longer. And I know that you're scared. Too scared to talk about all the ugly things that your daddy did to you. I know your daddy told you things that made you feel wrong inside. I know he told you that you didn't know how to love other people, and that he would teach you because he was your daddy. That he'd make you understand love. I know you hated it every time he tried to teach you about love, and I know that you think it means that you can't love anyone because you hate how your daddy tried to show you love. Maybe you even think that loving people is gross or wrong, or will always feel bad. But your daddy lied to you, Thea. He lied to you about a lot of things. Most of all, above what love is. You can love. And it's not wrong to love. It's not dirty."

"_No,"_ Thea breathes.

"_Yes_, Thea. Your daddy didn't teach you how to love. He hurt you instead. And love doesn't hurt you. It doesn't make you feel bad inside. But I think you believe that love is wrong - wrong for you. And because that scares you, you try to tell yourself that it doesn't exist. That love doesn't exist for you either, because then it doesn't matter if you hate it. The way you think love has to feel. But your daddy didn't teach you love, Thea. Your daddy only taught you to fear. He taught you how to be quiet, and how not cry on the outside. He taught you how to make yourself be very still and not breathe loudly, right? Because maybe if you stayed very still, and did not make a sound he'd be gone when you let yourself feel again. When you opened your eyes again - maybe it would stop? And then maybe the pain would go away faster. I know that's what you're trying to do, Thea. Right now."

Thea lets out a sound that sounds both tremulous and mangled.

**But I can't stop now. If I don't continue on, she'll never hear. She'll never _know it in her heart_.**

"I know your daddy hurt you very badly. I know he threatened you not to tell anyone. Not even your mommy. Not the doctors. Not _anyone._ I know he hurt your body too - not just your heart. I know he went inside your body. And I know that you had no idea what he was doing when he did it that first time. I know you didn't even know it was possible for a man to go inside you like that."

Thea's eyes pull back open, and she recoils in place. Her small head pulls against the bed and against her pillow and she watches me with a grimace on her face. It's horrible to see.

_But it's something. It's a response._

_It gives me something to work with._

"Thea?," I whisper. "You can talk to me."

_**No,**_ her head shakes.

_No, I can't._

But her eyes are watching. As if what I'm saying is grounding her._ As if my words are her thoughts. _

**_And as if my words are purging something._**

**_Lancing a wound._**

**_A pus filled wound. _**

**_One that is toxic._**

Something she may not have the strength to speak about on her own, either. Not now. And maybe not ever, if I stop. If I ignore the truth to save her emotions and my composure.

"I know the first time it happened, you wanted to die, didn't you?"

The expression on the child's face is too adult and too knowing to be believed. No front teeth, _but those eyes..._

_Those eyes are answering in the affirmative._

**And my God, I want to hug her.**

But she's not a child who can be hugged right now. Not without linking my hug to this conversation. To this _confusion_.

_To this shame._

"I know that you thought about dying. I know you tried to tell your mommy about dying so maybe she would know. _Understand._ But she didn't understand what you were trying to say, did she? No one knew about your daddy. Only you. And after your daddy went into your body, you probably couldn't stop your hands from shaking. I know there was blood."

Thea flinches, and I move slightly closer to her bed.

"That must have been very scary."

Thea hesitates, but her chest rises and falls more quickly now. I can feel the heat of her indecision.

To talk, and admit what happened, probably most nights - since she was a toddler.

Or to remain still... and d_eny the reality of what happened._

And no one could blame her for wanting to do that. For wanting to forget.

* * *

But she nods.

**Finally, she nods.**

**And even though she's not my child**

**and could never be my child**

**I feel proud of her.**

* * *

"It hurt," she whispers at last.

I don't know if it's her face, her expression - or her general smallness. Or the fact that she's talking at all - but I suddenly want to weep with relief and pain; my throat feels sore and clogged.

"It hurt a lot," she reiterates - even more softly than the first time, if possible.

"I know, honey."

Thea's eyes dart down to my chest. To my necklace.

I can sense that she needs to wipe her eyes, but can't.

"They didn't come. Not _ever_."

I lean in closer to her. Restrain myself from grasping her hand. Try to offer her comfort, without touching her.

"_Who_ didn't come, honey?"

Thea stares at her lap and tries to flex against the bed. Her small arms remain immobile.

"My angels," she breathes.

**_Oh God._**

_Jane was right._

_They were angels, to her._

_In the vent - t__he stones. On the books. Covering up soiled, bloody clothes._

_Her...angels._

_Her watchers._

"The rocks?"

Thea looks past me. Bites her lip. Hard. It bleeds a bit, and then she pulls the swollen portion into her mouth and sucks away the blood before I can register what has fully happened.

"Thea - _no_!"

I reach for her tenatively, and place my hand on her back. Then bend her towards me. Given the restraints, I can't hold her but I can rub her back softly. In circular movements. So I do.

"No, no. You don't have to do that. You don't have to hurt yourself. Please don't do that, sweetheart."

Thea begins to cry. Out of frustration, or my gentle admonishment - I'm not sure. Perhaps both.

"They never _came, _Teresa. My angels. Why didn't they come back for me?"

My heart is pounding thunderously hard in my chest.

**_'Come back?'_**

**_What does that even mean?_**

"I know you thought they were angels, Thea," I attempt, eventually. "I know you thought they would keep your daddy away from you. But they were just stones. They couldn't...keep you safe. You kept yourself safe, in your mind. You saved _yourself_. That's how strong you are. You're so strong. So brave."

"No!," the child pants, "No! They _were_ my angels! They told me so. They _talked_ to me! They were not 'maginary! They're real!"

If I could move, I'd get a doctor.

**_But what would that serve?_**

**_More sedatives?_**

**_More repression?_**

_Would Thea even willingly speak about this subject ever again if I broke this spell?_

**Probably not.**

"Thea, I'm so sorry your daddy hurt you like that, sweetheart. I'm so sorry you had to go through that and keep it all in your heart. That you thought you needed the angels."

Thea sways about brokenly on the bed. Her small face is red and screwed up, like an infants - without the noise.

"They came for my mommy! And they touched her with their wings, so she smiled at them and they made her beautiful. But they didn't come back for me. They were supposed to come back for me so I could be with her! But they left me. They didn't even care! Not even when I cried in my head and asked them to come back for me! They let mommy die and go with them, but not me!"

**_Damn it. DAMNIT._**

**Thea's lip is bleeding. **

**Her nose is bright red. **

**Her eyes are sunken in.**

_**She looks like death.**_

Tell myself I'm doing the right thing. The necessary thing.

I fight down nausea, and an encroaching sense of horror.

She's crying.

I want to stop talking.

I want her to stop talking.

I want to hold her.

But I can't stop now.

Not with what she's just said.

"Thea?"

My throat doesn't want to work.

**_Damnittohell._**

So I close my eyes. Count backwards from ten. Open my eyes.

.

.

.

.

.

"Thea...did you see your mommy die?"

Thea studies me, her expression cautious. Almost _concerned_.

The irony of it chokes me.

* * *

**A/N:** last chapter (epilogue) is about half written, and will be about 5,000 words. It will be "Jane POV" chapter and will wrap up the story. Although, I will be continuing this 'universe' in other works - so keep tuned!

Reviews, as always, make my day. Even if I'm rotten at responding. I'll try to be better at saying my "thank you's"! ;)


	35. Chapter 35

**Title - Little Stars - Part 35**

**Author - Kourion **

**A/N: **So we are getting down to it.

Very quickly. **This is NOT the last chapter**. The last chapter is one I wanted to end from Lisbon's POV for the last two weeks now. I was debating changing it to a Jane POV chapter, but I didn't want to split the last main chapter into two POV's as I felt that would feel fractured.

Hence, you get a relatively short Chapter 35. (You're...welcome? Or not, perhaps. I personally prefer reading longer chapters and longer stories. As I'm sure you can all tell by now :p)

Jane, after all, needs to make some sort of peace with his past. He's so pain-laden in this story, and I don't want him hurting so much anymore. I never did, but I felt it was true to his character in canon. There is no way he feels at peace most of the time, and that knowledge (of how people grieve, especially when they blame themselves) was really the prime focus of the subject I wanted to tackle when I first started writing this fic... eons ago.

The backstory of his abusive childhood will factor (somewhat) in upcoming stories but will not be as prominent. However, I want to lay Charlotte to rest, so to speak. At least the raw, grieving aspects of his loss. Because the follow-up stories I have planned will start to become more romantic in tone and I didn't want to mix anything even borderline romantic with anything this angsty.

**Chapter 36 will be longer, and more plot-driven, wrapping up loose ends.**

The epilogue (I guess we can call that Chapter 37?) will be a "Thea POV". Shorter, but I have more I want her to 'say' before the story wraps up for good. (Thea has grown on me. She almost seems like a real child to me now, and I don't want her to go off into fanfiction-nothingness. I'm sure you all understand.)

* * *

Thank you for ALL the encouragement, you guys! You have been wonderful reviewers. Cream of the crop. I really want to apply all your positive feedback and constructive criticism as much as possible. One reviewer in particular (you know who you are ;)) gave me wonderful input about how not to rely on too-easy generalizations for describing Cho. Or any character. But definitely not Cho ;)

(To this person: I can't tell you how much your feedback resonated with me. It made sense. It made me look at my own potential weaknesses as a writer. I really won't forget your input and advice. Thank you again!)

And for all of you who simply pm'ed me asking when the next chapter would be up? Well, here it is! ;)

For the record, the main music listened to while writing this chapter was the very poignant "Halving the Compass" by Helios. In fact, Helios is a great band to listen to if you want to write and not be overpowered by lyrics, but still want something faintly emotive playing in the background.

* * *

**Jane's POV **

* * *

I feel something warm and pressing. Almost painful.

A slight change of movement informs me that I need to use the bathroom.

_Quite badly._

I extricate myself from my hospital blankets and kick them back against the edge of the bed with my bare feet. The air feels insanely cool now. I suspect my fever has returned.

My hospital room is without a personal restroom so I look about for my shoes. I can't see anything.

_Lisbon's probably swipped them so I wouldn't go wandering off without an escort._

"Where are my shoes? Come on, Lisbon. Where did you put my stuff?," I mutter aloud.

_**Answer:** they're probably locked in the back of the rental car._

**Damnit. I have to pee.**

A small voice. Little. Young.

**"They're over here. Right here."**

* * *

Not Thea's. But a child's.

"Hello?," I test cautiously, feeling off kilter. The sound is muffled and so I lower myself to my knees, looking under the bed. Resounding giggles follow, as if this is a game.

**My head is killing me.**

**I really am sick.**

**I really should buzz a nurse.**

The little voice giggles again, and the giggles deafen my heart.

* * *

I hope this time that I don't come back from the warmth. That I can stay there. In that _memory of happiness. Not to return to the coldness of being alone._

To return to a world where I know they're gone. Forever.

**And that it's all my fault.**

"If I give you your sneaks, will you give me Gippy? Do we have a deal, daddy?"

**_In the photo I'm winking at her, trying not to laugh._**

**_Charley is grinning wide._**

**_Lips hyper-pink from eating popsicles all morning._**

**_Gippy-Gee sits stoic and proper._**

**_Father's Day tie pulled tight around his Hippo head._**

**_Silk socks dangling off his feet._**

**_"He looks like you, Daddy!"_**

**_Ange and I start laughing._**

I close my eyes and try to break off the pain.

Before it pumps out and infects all my senses.

* * *

"You're not here. You're gone. You're not real," I say to a dark room with walls that in daytime are white, but at night are something not at all familiar.

_Walls that - at night - remind me of the psychiatric ward._

**"You died."**

* * *

A small hand, pale and mottled, wraps around the bedframe. I hear scuffling. And then I see her.

Her.

My little girl.

"Doncha want your sneaks, Daddy?"

Her face is whiter than limestone. But her eyes - they are still her eyes.

Still hers. Even if the rest of the body is gone.

I shut my eyes tight and let out a sob.

_Sneaks. **Sneaks.**_

I remember.

**I remember.**

How could I forget? Did I ever?

And does it count as forgetting if she's always been with me? Even when I denied her presence?

Her little voice. That lilt, as if she were a British child and not at all American raised. All _Charley._ The way her sentences always ended on a high note, even when she wasn't asking a question. The squeakiness that infused itself in her words when she got excited about dinosaurs or building castles in the sand, or eating pistachio ice cream, or laughing at me as I pretended to be a "Pony".

The fact that she was _always_ excited, even though Angie was forever worried that she'd become spoiled from my attention.

The way her face would light up in almost-glee as the sun would set at the park. How she'd hop off from her swing mid-flight, as if she really thought she was a bird. Taking upwards to the sun. How she'd move her hand across the air, across the sky - _untouchable, as the sky always will be_ - but despertately yearning to touch the night.

The way her enthusiasm for the clouds would become **_my enthusiasm for every little moment_**.

How she'd make a motion of painting when she spoke about the sky. The pinks and the purples on an exceptionally beautiful night.

How she saw beauty in everything. In everyone.

Even in me.

* * *

_"I want the green sneaks for school, Daddy! The green sneaks."_

_I study the sneakers, as if I am debating with myself._

_Of course, it's a done deal. She'll have the green sneakers._

_"Can I get these ones? Please? PLEASE please? They're soooo cool, daddy!"_

_And I responded with:_

_ "I don't see why not, Charley-Bean. _

_You'll be at a big kid school next week. With gym class. _

_You need the most excellent sneaks, I think."_

_Charlotte grins at me, full and warm and very pleased with the fact that she's Growing Up._

_"They light up, too, Daddy! These sneaks light up. I'll be like a star! A glowy, green star!"_

**I ushered over the sales girl and got the shoes **

**the light up shoes**

**with the green stripes and the purple laces.**

**And the soles that lit up.**

**All for $69.95**

_"You'll be my little star. My baby star."_

_Charlotte makes a face, scrunching up her face as if embarassed._

_"Daddy, I'm not a baby. I'm going to have a gym class soon!"_

_She pushes against her top tooth with her tongue._

_It'll be falling out soon._

**Except it didn't.**

**Except it never fell out. **

**Because Red John killed her 26 days later.**

* * *

"Daddy?"

I open my eyes, and she's sitting a foot away from me. One chubby little foot resting on the opposing knee. She's wearing white baby-doll pajamas. Her purple sweater is gone.

_It had come off in the night. That night. The night she was murdered._

I put my hands to my head and try to realize that what I'm feeling is grief.

It must be grief.

_Everyone said when it came - when it finally hit me..._

Long repressed grief. That's all it is. Or else I'm losing it.

**I am losing it.**

**I am sick.**

**And not just in my heart.**

I want to kill a man with my bare hands.

I want to slice him open.

I want to take his organs out of his body

so that he can never touch a little girl again.

Never take another little child out of this life.

It's how I feel about Thea's so-called 'dad.'

_He called himself a father?_

He was a rapist. A pedophile.

He tore a little girl up from the inside out and made her bleed.

He did that with his body.

**_Just like Red John._**

_because you've always known there was a sexual component _

_with Red John's crimes_

_the women he attacked_

_you just couldn't cope with the idea that his perversion_

_his lust for blood _

_his sexual appetite for death_

_was directed towards your own daughter_

_and your own wife._

**And you need to face the fact that maybe**

**it was.**

* * *

Or the men that hurt me when I was little.

_A toddler. Only a toddler._

_You can deny it all you want. But denial doesn't mean it didn't happen._

_You know that truth too, Patrick._

* * *

"Here are your sneaks, Daddy," the little voice states, quietly. Just as she used to speak when Angela had a migraine. Charley was always so sweet. Always so careful not to hurt her momma's head when she was having one of her attacks.

I stare at the ghost-child, not knowing if I want to hug her or push her awayin horror. If I scream, Lisbon will come. I know that.

But then everything will **end. _The illusion that I'm alright... will end._**

"I don't...," I stop, because my voice is shaking. "Did you take my sneaks, honey-bear?," and I play along, tears pouring down my face. But tears don't matter because ghosts can't see tears. They're too busy hurting over their own pasts.

That's why they're ghosts.

* * *

And it's true.

The little ghost-child doesn't seem to notice the tears. The veil of my illusions. Of being okay, when I'm struggling. When every day, I'm struggling just to keep going. Just to find a reason to open my eyes. To smile. To hope.

_lisbon _

_there's always lisbon_

_but i can't accept that it's true_

_that i could love her...more_

_i don't deserve her love_

_i don't deserve the hope that would come from her love_

Instead, the little ghost-child giggles again. Her mouth opens into nothingness. No pearly pink mouth of life and blood and oxygenated tissue.

Her mouth is obscenely dark.

Because she's been murdered.

But at my feet, my shoes now lay. Old, brown and re-sealed at least six times in the last decade.

_They were my last fathers day present from my child._

_Brown shoes, and venetian red socks._

_Socks I couldn't get blood on _

_when I tried __to kill myself_

_So I took them off._

_Because in that Schopenhauerian moment of life and death_

_my own moment between the two worlds_

**_those socks had meant more to me than my own blood_**

* * *

"Can I have Gippy back now?," my Charley asks.

Her wiggly tooth is gone. Somehow, she lost that tooth. Perhaps in death. I'll never know. But it was important, to her. To me. That marker of progression from little kid to big kid.

I went to a television interview and she had all of her baby teeth. But when I came home, one was gone.

"I don't have your Gippy, baby," I say to the void. The black-outline of a little girl who will never sit next to me again. Never giggle again. Never call me daddy again.

_I'll never be **anyone's** daddy again._

"Gippy is packed up with your baby clothes. Your little red shoes. I don't...keep Gippy with me anymore, honey-bear. Gippy makes me cry. You're still on him. I couldn't even wash him."

_The most well behaved member of the Jane family. _

_Little Gippy-Gee._

_Purple hippopotamus._

* * *

_Who turned red. _

_Because my daughter held on to him._

_Somehow._

_Somehow._

_Somehow she managed to hold onto Gippy-Gee._

_As she died._

* * *

When her hand touches my own, the fingertips are cold. Colder than cold. Because cold is something the living feel. But she feels like the shadows. Nothing more than that. Than shadows and yellowed paper and pencils that are out of graphite, and old cracked pottery. Flowers that have dried in their vase, and no longer hold a scent.

**My daughter is dead.**

And there is something so very lonesome about shadows.

* * *

Her petite face falls into sadness.

"Don't cry, daddy. I don't want you to cry anymore."

My throat hurts. My throat hurts too much to even swallow. But, eventually I do.

And eventually I talk to her. Almost like she's with me. Like she's really here.

"I can't...help it, Charlotte. You were my little girl. My one and only child. I've never loved anyone as much as I loved you. When you were born, I was terrified. I was so overwhelmed because you were so tiny. You were only 5 lbs. The size of a Chihuahua dog."

Charlotte smiles up at me, loving the comparison to her favorite animal. Puts her small, mottled death-hand over her mouth and laughs. Almost shyly. Leans her head against my side, where my ribs still ache from grief and now where my ribs suddenly hurt with the cold of her body.

"I was as big as a Chawow dog?"

I try to continue. **_I do_**. It's so hard, though.

I close my eyes and try not to burst into tears.

When I feel calmer, I look back into her soul.

"You were so precious to me. You have no idea how precious. I thought I couldn't pick you up. Because you had little arms the size of pencils and I didn't want to hurt my 5 lb Chihuahua dog."

Charlotte grins. Her eyes glow like fireflies in the darkness of our room. It's the only thing about her now that reminds me of my daughter in life. Her eyes. Her soft, sweet eyes. But it's enough to give me strength.

"Nuh uh! My arms were bigger'n _that!"_

"No they were _not_. I'm your daddy, and I remember exactly how tiny you were when I saw you for the first time. And you had these little squirmy feet. The nurse came in and you had a pink name tag on your left foot. And then they wrapped you up like an Inuit baby. In cloth with pink and white stripes and a little cap. You were so tiny. So tiny."

I ignore the chills, the fear. I ignore my shoes, sitting by my feet. I can't put them on, and run away.

**I can't do that to her.**

_I can't leave her all alone again. In the darkness. In the blackness._

_With no one there to pick her up or hold her when she was her most scared._

_Because I did that once already._

And I have no way of knowing if she died in terror. I have no way of knowing. I have no way of fixing that. Of taking her terror away. In that moment that's gone on Earth but never gone in my head.

In some ways - in many ways - the fact that she may have died in terror hurts me the most. More than the fact that she died. Because everyone dies. But no one should have to die like _that._

"I'm okay, daddy. Everything is okay now."

She smiles a gap-toothed smile up at me, as I stroke her head. Her head feels wet, and sticky, and I push away the reason for why she feels that way.

"How can anything ever be okay, Bean? Ever again? You're...gone. I made you go away."

Her arm comes across my chest and she squeezes with all her little might.

_It's not much - her strength._

_ But it means more to me than the physical sense of pressure._

"I'm not in any pain any more, daddy. No pain."

I put my hands under her ribcage and lift her up to my lap. Like she's a baby again, and dressed in her Christmas frills, and I'm sitting with her for our first family portrait.

When she's seated, I grasp her hands and I rub them. I blow into them, like I did with Thea's. This time, the hands do not become warm. As hard as I try, they never become warm.

Because Thea is alive, and can be comforted by warmth.

All the same, I have to try.

* * *

I blow again. Try in earnest to give her some of my warmth. As much of my warmth as she needs. All that I have, if that helps. Now that I have gotten used to the grotesqueness of her injuries, I can almost ignore the purple markings of lividity that are not going away no matter how hard I try to bring circulation and life back to her body.

I tell myself that dead or not - she's still my Charley. And that she's still holding onto me like Charley would have done, when scared, or when in need of comfort.

And I am her father - so does anything else matter?

I can never be afraid of my own daughter.

I refuse to be afraid of her memory any longer.

Red John took away almost everything that made me whole and made me feel loved.

I bring my lips to her palms and kiss her soft, rounded hands. She still has the slight round fullness in her face from her pre-school years.

* * *

"A little warmer now, my little star?"

I feel her damp head nod against my neck. I also know that she's getting blood on me. But that's not her fault.

"I'm sorry, Charlotte. I wish I could take it all back. Take back everything that I did that got you hurt."

My daughter lets out a harsh exhale against my throat. The sound reminds me of the noise she made at birth. Before she took in her first breath; her lungs still full of amniotic fluid. _Rattling._

**_Heavy in her chest._**

**Too heavy for a little star.**

"You didn't do anything wrong, daddy. You didn't do anything wrong."

I'm still hugging an ice-cube of a ghost-child, but the ache in my chest is a little less now.

Because I know that my real Charley wouldn't want me to cry. Wouldn't want me to hurt this much.

"Warmer?," I question again when I feel I can. I rock her back and forth, only this time I am not reminded of the night of her death.

This time, I rock her slowly. I hold her and the pain abates.

"Warmer," she whispers. "Thank you for hugging me back, daddy."

"_Of course I'd hug you back._"

I grasp on to her even more tightly now, and she buries her face against my shoulder.

"Keep holding onto me, daddy. Don't put me down again. I miss you. I don't want you to forget about me."

Her voice resounds clearly in my head.

Faintly, I can almost her Angela in her. In the sound. I can also hear myself. _It makes sense._

She was of us both. Me, and Angela. She was _ours._

**_Charley, Ange, me._**

**_Charley's stuffed hippo Gippy-Gee is closest to the camera._**

**_The four of us are having a picnic._**

**_Little cucumber sandwiches for Ange._**

**_Egg salad for me._**

**_Peanut butter and jelly for Charley._**

**_I'm drinking real tea. _**

**_Ange is sipping beer out of her plastic tea cup._**

**_One finger raised in the air, like a proper British monarch._**

**_In the photo I'm winking at her, trying not to laugh._**

**_Charley is grinning wide._**

* * *

**A/N:** last chapter will be up by Sunday. I'll do my 'best-est,' I promise, to have it up by that date. :)

**Oh, for the record**: Jane isn't losing his mind in this chapter. He's still very sane (as sane as Jane ever is, I mean). He's just very feverish. All will be explained in the next chapter.

But if you believe in ghosts or dream-messages or beyond the grave healing, go with it ;)

I hope this "goodbye" was a little more consoling that the goodbye scene Jane had with his daughter on the show. Rip my heart out, why don't ya? ;)

~Kour


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